


Could Be Blue, Could Be Grey

by nightwideopen



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Lots of Crying, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 21:30:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3462731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightwideopen/pseuds/nightwideopen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>The Devil and God are Raging Inside Me </em>
</p><p>louis and harry meet on a balcony, but it’s not louis that harry meets</p>
            </blockquote>





	Could Be Blue, Could Be Grey

**Author's Note:**

> so. this is the longest fic ive written to date and it's been a hell of a ride. special thanks to skye for not letting this thing die despite the numerous times ive deleted it and cried over it and hated it. also thanks to el for beta'ing this monster.
> 
> as goes with most of my works, there are going to be some inaccuracies not only because of the lack of research and standards with this condition but because of my immense lack of knowledge and experience with this sort of thing. also there are some hints at past sexual/physical/emotional abuse that's not explained or resolved, so this is both a warning and a heads up to a major plot point
> 
> SUPER SPECIAL SHOUT OUT TO LOUIS HIMSELF FOR KEEPING THIS ALIVE WITH HIS BEAUTIFUL NEW 'THE DEVIL AND GOD ARE RAGING INSIDE ME' VANS BECAUSE WITHOUT THOSE I NEVER WOULDVE KEPT GOING
> 
> ill shut up now
> 
> title from Strawberry Swing by none other than Coldplay

_ **Dissociative Identity Disorder** _

_Also called: DID, multiple personality disorder_  

___A disorder characterized by the presence of two or more distinct personality states___

* * *

_Louis_

Louis hates neighbours. He hates people, he hates children, he hates animals and elevator rides and small talk and welcome mats. He hates SUV’s and yellow lights and fifty pound notes. Louis hates the colour fuschia and small countries with long names. Most of all, he hates clocks with numbers on them. He hates most things, almost all things. But then there’s Zayn. Zayn is okay.

If it was up to him, Louis would live alone. Specifically, he’d live on a deserted island that’s been cleared of anything with lungs. As it is, however, he doesn’t get paid nearly enough for that, and consequently also cannot afford a flat that’s worthy of his inhabitancy all on his own.

Fortunately, Zayn gets it. A natural introvert himself, he’s been able to quickly pick up on the difference between Louis needing to be alone and wanting to be alone. The latter usually results in Louis screaming things at Zayn that he doesn’t mean until his voice is raw and he’s physically got no energy left to push Zayn’s skinny arms away. Later, when he's being a bit less of an emotional douchebag he always apologises and offers to do laundry. Zayn never lets him though, not after that one time he turned all of Zayn’s boxers tie-dye. But that’s why Louis offers, because Zayn will always say no but accepts the sentiment in the gesture all the same.

But when he does need to be alone, for the sake of them both, Zayn leaves. He leaves Louis with a pack of cigarettes on the coffee table and his thoughts, the special made _Bus 1_ playlist playing on a soft loop from his bedroom. The music drifts easily to the balcony where Louis sits to escape. He sits out there no matter the weather; never letting cold or heat or any kind of precipitation deter him. He’s fairly certain that if he was having one of his days and there was acid rain falling from the sky, he’d find himself out there. Nature is an ever changing constant in his life, reliably unpredictable, but always there nonetheless.

For years, Louis’s been fine with his uneven cycle of emotions, both he and Zayn becoming acutely attuned to the way either of them can snap at the drop of a dime; Louis more so than Zayn. It’s developed into a comfortable familiar _thing_ , something he’s never had before and can call his life. He keeps waiting for something to change; he waits for the day their flat burns down and leaves them stranded, the day he gets fired without warning, the day Zayn leaves him on his own for someone that holds a spot of significantly, if minimally, greater importance.

The day hasn’t come, though, so he’s stuck in a pleasant rut of routine boredom. He wakes up, makes his cup of tea and goes to work, comes home and orders takeaway and leaves Zayn’s in the fridge for him, watches the telly until he falls asleep and lets Zayn carry him to bed. Then he does it all over again.

Saturdays throw him off, the sudden change in his schedule giving him whiplash even though he knows it’s coming. Every week. Zayn makes fun of him for it, telling him that he’s certifiably insane for not welcoming the weekend with open arms. Louis ignores him, just wakes up at his usual time, makes tea, and walks around for a few hours, watching.

Louis does that a lot, watches people. As much as he hates them, he’s not stupid; he realises that they’re quite fascinating creatures with their pressed suits and insatiable desire to fill up every second of their day with nonsense. Half the time he finds himself wishing he was one of them, just a mundane, run-of-the-mill working class citizen with a penchant for collecting stamps or something equally as boring. He spends the other half alternating between wishing he could get into people’s heads and pretending that he is. He acts as if he’s Sherlock Holmes, or something, as if he can map out someone’s whole morning based on a jelly stain or a crinkle in their trousers. He’s always wishing that he was some sort of super-genius, a man with the capability to deduct everything in sight in thirty seconds flat. He thinks he’s halfway there, what with the way his brain works overtime 24/7, like it’s trying to prove something to itself, and the amount of classical music he listens to biweekly. He’s on the cusp of deciding whether he should buy himself a violin or not.

It’s a Friday night, and Zayn’s home early, when he startles them both out of the two week long silence they’d ended up in. They do that sometimes, not talk for weeks on end, not because they’re cross with each other, but because they’re both so verbally challenged that they just fall into a mutual agreement to not use words to spare the entire flat of the crushing weight of saying the wrong thing.

“Do you think flies scream?” Zayn doesn’t jump, just quickly turns his head from where he’s on his phone. “Not like, a squeaky scream, like a proper scream and we just can’t hear it.”

Louis digs his foot into Zayn’s side so as to prompt him to speak. “I dunno, mate. Do they even have vocal cords?”

Louis doesn’t answer, just flips onto his stomach and drapes his legs over Zayn’s. The response assuages any further useless questions he’d wanted to ask, but also spurs on his head into wondering equally useless things.

"Do you think Jupiter will ever be inhabitable? Y'know, after the sun swallows the Earth?" Zayn heaves an offensively deep sigh. "Am I _bothering_ you, sir?"

He doesn't miss a beat. "Yes."

"What'd you skive off early for then?" Louis muses, frowning exaggeratedly. 

"Wanted to spend time with you, arsehole, didn't want you to chew my ear off while you're up in the clouds again, though."

Louis flails around annoyingly simply to harass Zayn, then lies on his back again and sits up. He leans over, bending himself in half and wondering when he became so flexible, and rests his head on Zayn's bony shoulder.

"M'not up in the clouds," he counters with a pout.

Zayn’s more than reasonable response is, "You're always up in the clouds."

Louis rolls his eyes. "Here we go again." He knows Zayn's taking the piss but he's still has to pretend that he’s more than a little bothered by the long running joke. "You're just jealous that I'm more creative than your 'brooding, artsy type' persona."

Zayn twists his nipple, he doesn't react. "It's not a persona, you pretentious hipster."

"I am _not_ a hipster.” Louis pulls back and blinks indignantly. “Take it back. _"_

Zayn snorts and throws his arms lazily over Louis' thighs. "Your Polaroid camera and vintage vinyls beg to differ, my friend."

"Fuck you," Louis chuckles, a fond smile pulling on his lips softly. 

Zayn ruffles his hair with the hand that he had moved to between Louis’ shoulder blades, turning off the television with the other. "Bed time?" he asks quietly.

Louis nods, making no move to remove himself from Zayn's lap. "C'n I crash with you? Spilled Corn Flakes all over me sheets."

Now, Louis knows for a fact that Zayn carries him to bed every night. He's never been conscious enough to confirm this, but there's no other explanation for him waking up every morning tucked into his bed and wearing nothing but his boxers, no matter how wild the stories of his childhood sleepwalking that he's been told by his mum are. Which is why he's not expecting it when he suddenly finds himself on the floor.

He lets out somewhat of a manly squeal as Zayn relieves his skinny thighs of the burden of Louis' huge bum. "What the _fuck,_ Z? You tryin' to kill me?"

Zayn shrugs and stands up, stepping over Louis ironically carefully. "You're quite heavy."

"Bro," Louis deadpans from the ground.

"Bro," Zayn mocks in a higher pitch.

Louis just scowls, storming past Zayn and leaving a trail of clothes as he sheds them until he's down to his briefs when he reaches Zayn's room. He curls up aggressively in the puffy green duvet, but his eyes don't get heavy until the bed dips beside him and Zayn is snoring softly.

-

Sometimes Louis’ mind is like a clear blue sky, open and pleasant with the occasional cotton candy cloud of a thought. He’s never really one hundred percent positive as to what goes on during those day. He loses track of time and gets stuck in the back of his head, and it’s almost as if his body’s on an autopilot of good deeds and rational thoughts and advice to himself that he finds on sticky notes all over the flat. Zayn calls them his Angel Days; when he actually does the washing properly, cleans off their dishes, orders something other than Chinese or pizza, has some well planned adult fun. On these days Zayn actually _calls_ him Angel, as if he's a separate person entirely. Louis still doesn’t fully understand why, vaguely recalling something about how he requested to be called that. Apparently it’s useful for Zayn to distinguish between “Angel” and Normal Louis. Zayn’s always telling him things he randomly remembers from Louis’ cherubic spouts so as to keep Louis updated, and Louis often finds himself unreasonably repulsed. 

Other times, Louis has what Zayn calls his Devil Days, where he’s also in some sort of unconscious cognitive state. He does things that Normal Louis would never dream of doing, and most of the time Louis can’t remember a single bit of it. Luke, as Zayn told him he likes to be called (short for Lucifer, he reasons), goes out too often, drinks too much, brings too many people home, leaving Normal Louis with deadly hangovers, bruises on his hips and across his throat, and with contacts in his phone that he’s positive weren’t there a few hours, sometimes a day or two, prior. This is the part of Louis that he lives in constant fear of, that he knows is always lurking around the corner. He never knows when the literal Satan inside him is going to pop out and start talking shit to people he ought not to be talking shit to, trashing his flat, being more of a dick to Zayn than Normal Louis usually is. On Devil Days, Louis’ head is a hurricane, a dark grey storm that beats against the walls of his skull, throwing bolts of lightning at any pragmatic thought that gets in the way of his good times.

Then there are the Normal Louis days, like today, when his brain is a pleasant mess of static, his thoughts akin to a pencil scribble on a piece of paper. Sort of like the one in that episode of _Doctor Who_. They’re jumbled and uncontrollable, but most importantly, they’re _his_. These days are far more frequent, take up more than ninety-five percent of his conscious hours. They’re not so much a breath of fresh air as they are a fish jumping back into the sea after sitting on the shoreline until its nearly dead.

Today hasn’t been a good day for Louis, but it hasn’t been an Angel or a Devil day, nor has it been one of his _days_ (Louis’s coming to realise he’s much too complex a person), just a day. It’s simply Normal Louis having a day in which his fingers itch for a cigarette for no apparent reason. So he forces himself outside in the cold January air in nothing but a t-shirt and joggers.

The moment he steps outside, he knows something is different. He can feel the presence of someone else in his safe haven before he sees them. The offending figure is on his right, topped with dark, curly hair that falls down to _his_ , Louis thinks, shoulders. In his periphery, the hair is all Louis can make out, but when he turns his head, he’s able to perceive soft features in the glowing light of the setting sun. It’s odd, because no one has ever been out on their balcony at the same time as him, and he’s pretty sure that he _knows_ the person who lives next door, the slight, blonde girl that he’s bumped into and gawked at on several occasions. Maybe he’s her boyfriend, but _no_ , she’s a lesbian. Her brother?

His curiosity gets the better of him. So with an extremely uncharacteristic burst of confidence he shouts, “Hey!” because he’s neither eloquent nor polite at the worst of times.

The figure startles, his lanky limbs jumping nearly out of his seat, leaving his long legs swinging where they’re slotted through the rails.

“Um,” Louis hears the rustle of a book, probably with now wrinkled and folded pages. _Good_ , he thinks. “Hi.”

The last thing Louis remembers is taking a drag from his cigarette and saying, “What’re you doing out here?”

-

_Harry_

The man on the balcony adjacent to Harry's splutters, coughs, grimaces at the cigarette he'd just been leisurely smoking. It's quite possibly the strangest thing Harry's ever seen, and he wants to know more. Though he doesn’t know why.

"M 'just reading, trying to take advantage of the new setting. If that’s alright with you?''

Harry can't see very well, the sun having descended fully by now, but the moonlit outline of this hunched over boy straightens up and cocks a hip. It’s fucking _fascinating._

"That's quite alright with me, love, but you're straining your eyes in the low light, did you know?''

The voice that Harry had heard initially is gone, almost as if he'd missed someone else step out onto the balcony in the man's place. The boyish tone with a slight rasp and a Yorkshire accent has been replaced with a high pitched, smooth, Scottish voice. 

"I didn't know that, no." Harry puts his book to the side. "You're Scottish?"

The silhouette nods. "Born and raised... What's your name, lad?" He pulls his phone out.

''Harry," he pauses for effect, "Harry Styles."

Face now illuminated by his phone screen, the boy nods, and Harry can see his impressed look. "My names Angel. You wanna come over here, Styles? Pretty sure my flatmate just bought some awful wine that I hate and I'm sure he wouldn't want me to drink it alone."

And if there's anything Harry likes in a man it's straightforwardness.

Harry clears his throat. And he honestly doesn’t know _why_ but he says, "Why don't, um, why don't you come over here? It's late, wouldn't wanna wake your mate."

Angel opens his mouth like he's going to protest, but instead he shrugs and says, "Yeah, alright."

Harry makes his way back inside as Angel does and finds himself sitting on his couch with him no less than fifteen minutes later in an extremely tight top and skinny jeans. Harry hadn’t thought to change, so he’s left looking like an actual Uni slob with this pretty boy sat across from him, legs crossed daintily as he sips the wine he’d brought over.

"So you're an _art_ major?" he finds himself asking.

Angel nods, flashing Harry the prettiest smile that he ever did see. It’s magical. "Yeah. I just love the idea of creating beautiful things that can hold so much meaning for myself and other people, you know?"

Harry smiles back. At least he thinks does, and maybe he's had a bit more to drink than he realises. "I've no idea," he answers truthfully. And it seems to pay off because he's rewarded a laugh that sounds like the embodiment of the stars.

"Honest," Angel muses, ''I do appreciate an honest man."

Harry feels a rush of confidence. "Yeah?" he says, "What other things do you appreciate?"

Angel laughs again. "You're awful. That truly was a terrible attempt. I'm embarrassed _for_ you." He leans closer, though, Harry having to cross his eyes to see him. “I appreciate lots of things, you know. I appreciate street art and cross bred dogs and black and white photographs.” Harry's eyes have slipped shut somehow, the sound of Angel's voice soothing him in a way that would have him embarrassed three, no, four glasses of wine ago. “I appreciate you pretending to be listening to anything I’m saying right now.”

“No, no,” Harry protests, forcing his eyes open, “M’listening I promise. Just... keep, that thing, keep doing it. Please." His voice drops to a whisper without his permission.

There's a laugh in Harry's ear and his eyes have apparently drooped shut again. "Talking, love? You want me to keep talking?" Harry nods as he feels a warm weight high up on his thigh and he can't bring himself to be opposed to it. “You’re sweet but there’s things I’d like to be doing that are better than telling you about my interests and aspirations.”

There’s a cackle falling past Harry’s lips before he can stop it and he clamps his hand over his mouth in a desperate and unreasonable attempt to shove it back down his throat. “Sorry,” he apologises immediately, “The gap that my brain put through ‘ass’ and ‘pirations’ is just embarrassing.”

Harry doesn’t get a response but rather an amused shake of Angel’s head and lips on his own. It’s gentler than he expected from this straightforward personality that was a stranger half an hour ago. Harry thinks it’s possibly the best first kiss he’s ever had, the least awkward, and Harry just relaxes into it, slips his fingers into the soft hairs that he’d seen illuminated by the moonlight at the base of Angel’s neck. There’s a hand pawing at his flimsy white t-shirt with the blue patch on the left sleeve and it doesn’t take long for a whimper to climb up and out of Harry’s throat without his permission.

Angel breaks the kiss accidentally with his smile. It’s quite endearing.

“Wanna take this somewhere more comfortable than my sofa that’s ninety percent cat hair and ten percent sofa?” Harry mumbles into his lips.

Angel’s eyes are still closed when Harry opens his. “Long sentence, but yes.”

Harry laughs softly, grabs the smaller boy’s hand and drags him to his room. He thinks he can let someone in just one more time, this one doesn’t seem too dangerous.

-

_Angel_

Angel hates Louis. It’s not in a malicious way, but in a loving, frustrated way. Angel hates the way Louis hates himself for no reason, hates the lack of faith he has in himself and everything he’s ever loved to do. Angel wants the best for Louis, wants him to take back everything he lost to that filthy bastard, wants him to be _happy_. He tries to help Louis out constantly, tries to give him motivation, cleans up for him from time to time, make sure he’s always tucked into bed and showered properly. He always, _always_ has to make sure that Luke isn’t taking more than he should, that Louis’s alright after one of Luke’s benders where he likes to run Louis’ body rampant all over the town. Angel hates Louis for losing control like this, but most of all hates that _fucker_ for doing this to him. To all three of them.

It gets a little crazy, up in Louis’ head sometimes, with all the fighting and disagreements between everyone. There are the jealous ones that get angry over how they never get to come out, the petulant children that need to be kept in check so they don’t disturb Louis’ work day. It’s Angel and a few others that keep everything in line, and he just wishes that Louis was aware of all that goes on, because maybe he could get some _help_ up there when he’s not down here trying to spark Louis’ love life or doing damage control after Luke’s many escapades.

“Alright Angel?” Harry sits down beside him with a bowl of crisps in one hand and two beers in the other, startling Angel out of his thoughts.

“Hmm?” He takes the bowl from Harry’s hands. “Yeah, m’alright. Was just thinking. Gets a tad loud up here, you know.”

Harry chuckles, holds up the second beer for Angel to take. “Wasn’t sure what you wanted to drink, I haven’t got much.”

“S’okay, not a big fan of beer. I’ll just get myself some water, play the film, yeah?”

Harry nods, Angel gently ruffling his hair on the way out, trying to ignore the way he leans into it for more like a bloody cat.

Louis would like Harry, he thinks. They’re not so different, Angel and Louis, with their taste in boys and music and food. Even though Louis is ten times more boyish with his baggy trousers and skate shoes, sometimes making Angel uncomfortable when he decides to come out and help, Angel think he fits well into Louis’ life. He’s always thought that if he had his own body, or if Louis even knew he was _here_ , at the very least, they’d get on pretty well.

Angel pinches his arm and fills a glass with tap water before he can focus too much on the itch in the back of his head. Even unconscious Louis can’t seem to just relax, can’t just trust Angel to try and make things just a little bit _better_. 

He returns to Harry’s sofa to find the taller boy picking through the bowl of crisps with the movie’s preview sequence still looping on the start menu.

“Gonna get all your germs in there before I’ve even had one?” he jests. Harry doesn’t laugh, though, instead he jumps, nearly sending the snack clear off his lap, some stray crisps escaping. “Woah, alright? That deep in thought, then?”  
Harry nods in uneasy agreement, and Angel can see right through him. “Yeah, didn’t wanna start it without you.” He seems to be struggling with something he wants to say. “Uh, I― How come you don’t ever wanna cuddle or like, hold hands? I’m um, I’m not misreading this, am I? Please tell me if I am.”

Angel feels a pounding in his skull and something akin to panic erupting in his chest. He wants a refund for this entire night. The thing is, he’s not _good_ with questions like these. He was genuinely unaware that he’s been sending Harry mixed signals, but his reason is simple: he doesn’t want to get Louis into anything too serious, just wants to give him the basis of a friendship. It’s been _five days_ , how on Earth can Harry be picking up signs already anyway? He’s not been flirting. Or at least he thinks he hasn’t… has he? Perhaps it's been their friendly... benefits that Harry's misreading, which- Shit.

Angel doesn’t know what to say, how to approach the situation in a way that sounds remotely logical. His instincts are telling him to pull a Louis, to get out while he can, before things get too confusing. He can’t just _explain_ everything to Harry, can’t go on and on about things that aren’t his to tell. It’s the main reason Angel never answers Zayn’s invasive questions. They were Louis’ experiences, more or less, and Angel doesn’t feel as if he has any right to be going around babbling about things he merely witnessed. He represses the worst memories from Louis anyway, but just because he has them, doesn’t mean that they’re his to give away like party favours.

Angel must be taking too long to answer, because Harry shakes his head and hastily backtracks. “I’m sorry, it’s too soon, isn’t it, I―”

“ _Harry_ ,” he interrupts, he’s getting secondhand embarrassment, “Don’t worry about it just― another time, alright? I just wanna watch a film. It’s been a long day.”

Harry nods, drops the conversation looking one part grateful and two parts disappointed.

Angel’s just scared for when Louis comes back, how he’s going to handle it. He knows it’s not going to be good. Maybe he’s done wrong this time, should’ve let Louis handle meeting Harry on his own. He might’ve fucked Louis over just a bit. For that, he thinks he’s going to hate himself for a bit. He just hopes it doesn’t tide over to Louis.

-

_Louis_

Louis wakes up to the incessant sound of his phone alarm and to an ache in his neck. It takes him a few moments for his brain to be of use, suddenly realising that it’s his Friday alarm that’s going off. It’s that cheerful _boopboopboop_ that his cynical and whirlwind of a mind had set as a joke all those months ago to signal the impending end of his work week. Even though he’s pretty sure that he’s already _lived_ through a Friday… not too long ago, and―  Perhaps it was a dream, no matter how vividly real the cold air and nicotine in his lungs felt.

So he ignores it, gets out of bed and does his best to disregard his upended mess of a room that was probably made by Zayn as revenge for Louis always sifting through his closet. A quick glance at his desk tells him the opposite, though, with the way his photos and cups are knocked over. It's not very Zayn-esque, not at all like the artful way he makes it difficult for Louis to cross his room, but more like a literal _mess_ , like someone stumbled drunkenly around in the dark.

There's a soft clink of glass from the kitchen, making Louis strain his ears to listen for more noises. When he hears nothing besides the scrape of metal on iron, he knows it’s Zayn making tea... who’s not supposed to be home at this hour on a weekday. 

"Z?" he calls as he stumbles into the kitchen. Louis realises that by some inexplicable anomaly, every single light in the flat has been turned on and rendering Louis simply _confused_. "Zayn, are you there? What are you― ?"

He stops short when he opens his tired eyes fully and sees a very naked not-Zayn standing in his kitchen. Not-Zayn doesn't say anything, just sips the tea he's evidently just made from Louis' favourite and only vintage Spider-man mug and smiles in a way that's uncomfortably smug and too friendly for a stranger.

“Who― sorry, who are you?” Suddenly the flash of curly hair and gangly limbs from his dream seems very real and... standing right in front of him. Though, he might still be dreaming, he can’t particularly tell the difference anymore. 

“How did you get in here?” is what he decides on.

Not-Zayn snorts into Louis’ mug. “Christ, you’d hit your head a few times but I didn’t think I’d fucked you into last week.”

Louis suddenly becomes very aware of the state they're both in and the feeling of dried sweat that’s settled over his skin. It could be a placebo effect of this mystery man’s words, but it makes his skin crawl more to think that it isn’t. There’s also no way in hell he can hallucinate the literal necklace of bruises that extends over the stranger’s collarbones.

He doesn’t say anything, just digs his fingernails into his palms where his hands are hidden by the sleeves of a large, grey jumper that doesn’t belong to him.

Curly’s face shifts into something of concern after about a full minute of Louis just staring at him from the doorway to the kitchen. 

“You alright, Angel? Do you really not remember, I. We only had a few drinks! Did someone... I was with you all night, er…” He doesn’t finish his mess of a sentence, probably intimidated by Louis’ frantic head shaking, if the crimson flush suffusing over his cheeks is anything to go by. “Did you not… want to? I―”

“No,” Louis heaves a deep sigh. He had a few of his Devil Days it seems, the dark part of him stealing his life for a full week and pulling an innocent bystander into his hold. For once, Louis actually feels guilty, because this person, whose name he still doesn’t even know, seems to genuinely care about him. He fucked up, he didn’t mean to but he did. “No, s’my fault. I-I remember... Wait. Did you just call me Angel? What do you know about that?"

Harry blanches. "That's your name, isn't it? Though, like, your accent's different again."

Three things run through Louis' head at the implication of Angel's appearance. First, Louis thanks everything that it was Angel and not Luke. Second, he curses himself for bad timing and the fact that this stranger knows his biggest secret. Third, what fucking _accent_?

So he throws a hand up to his head a bit hysterically. "Shit, did hit my head a bit hard, didn't I?" It gets Curly to nervously laugh along to his faux chuckle. "Just, I think I wanna be alone right now. I don’t mean to like… y’know.”

“Yeah, no,” he sets Louis’ mug down on the countertop, looking entirely unconvinced. "I understand. I’m, um, I’m sorry if I did something wrong.” The confirmation that this person hasn’t had any interaction with his inner demon is comforting at least. He’d never let anyone be this nice to him. Louis doesn’t think anyone would have any reason to be. “I’ll just. Go grab my stuff.” He shuffles awkwardly past Louis, leaving him with half a weight on his chest. He doesn’t know what to think.

“Hey, um,” Curly turns around attentively but Louis doesn’t quite know what to say, “Thank you. For understanding…?” He trails off questionly in hopes that this apparent not-stranger will tell Louis his name.

He doesn’t, just nods his head and smiles sheepishly, retreating back into Louis’ room. Right. He’s already supposed to know his name.

When Curly finally does leave, Louis finds himself lost in his thoughts and ten minutes behind schedule. He sends Zayn a quick test reading _who the hell was i this week??_ before he hastily showers and dresses in his work uniform in less than twenty minutes.

Back on track, he’s able to breathe steadily and feel his head fall back into a peaceful white noise and the occasional morbid thought. He pulls on his shoes quickly and flicks through his messages as he walks, finding an inordinate amount of messages to one _H. Styles_ , in his Angel side’s standard first-initial-last-name way of adding his contacts. It’s a useful system he’s devised with himself, with Normal him just adding first names, the other with its neat and businesslike additions, while his Devil puts in nicknames and names spelled wrongly due to drunkenness or carelessness. It’s a relief to see ‘H’s’ name put in in the organised way it was.

Juxtaposed to the seemingly innocent way the conversations were first initiated, with sweet _Hello_ ’s and an overkill of smiley faces, the more recent ones (as recent as last night― no wonder whatever the hell happened… happened) are just downright _filthy_. There’s a medley of pictures of both of them in various stages of undress, words that Louis could never _imagine_ saying and it’s just― it’s too much. He feels himself blushing as he turns one last corner towards the local theatre. It’s horrifying; he didn’t even know his fucked up brain was _capable_ of things like that. He thinks maybe he’s hit both sides of the spectrum in the last seven days.

When he arrives at the theatre and is stuffing his messenger bag in a corner where no one can find it, his phone buzzes with a text from Zayn saying _not rly sure, ask that harry lad uve been fckin all week , spent more time w him than me. x_

Louis’ stomach sinks so far down he thinks that any further and it would’ve fallen straight out of his arse and into his black stagehand trousers.

Louis doesn’t think there’s a rational thought left in his mind when he texts Zayn back with a severely misspelled _tell me you’re joking_.

Zayn assures him, and reassures him, and re-reassures him through six text messages and a panicked phone call that he is indeed serious. It’s twenty minutes until the final dress rehearsal of _You Can’t Take It With You_ and Louis’ absolutely ready to vomit over something completely unrelated to the one thing he should be focused on.

When he snaps out of his panicked headspace, remembering where he is, he becomes aware of a tinny voice calling his name. At first he thinks he's imagining it, but once the voice says _Hello?_ about half a dozen times, he looks down at his phone to find that he's accidentally dialed none other than _H. Styles_ with his shaky and sweaty hands. With trembling fingers, he lifts the phone to his ear and says Harry's name in a sigh of relief. He doesn't stop to think about about what that means, hardly notices the way the muscles his limbs lock up and tense at the sentiment of the action.

"Hello? You alright, Angel?" His voice is an octave above worried and a beat behind panicked. "You sounded like you're hurt, what's wrong?"

Louis must’ve spaced out deeper than he thought, and when he checks the time on the call it’s ticking just past five minutes. He doesn’t know what to make of that.

“M’alright. M-Must’ve called you by accident. S’been a weird d-day.” He’s trying and plaintively failing to keep his voice steady.

“D’you wanna talk about it? I know this morning might’ve been a little awkward, but. We’re still good, yeah? Mates at least? You can talk to me, you know that.”

Louis’ brain releases what feels like a warning, like little builders trying to repair the wall in his head that Harry’s driving a heavy duty bulldozer through. It’s a bad metaphor, but that’s what it feels like to him, and Louis’s hardly had a proper conversation with him yet. At least, _Louis_ hasn’t.

Louis needs to know what happened between last Friday and this one, but he’s only down to a mere five minutes before the director sends Niall and rest of the Geek Squad after him. (They know all of his hiding spots and will find him in under a minute. Pack of bloody hunting dogs, they are.)

“I just―” Someone calls his name from about three metres away. He seriously overestimated Aiden’s patience this morning. “I’ve, um, got to get to work. I,” _Tommo!_ “I need to ask you a few things though― _I’ll be right there!_ ”  
He swears he can hear Harry’s nodding, even through the phone. “Sure, no problem at all, I― yeah. Knock on my door whenever you get back, m’home all day.” There’s a long, static-filled pause. “306.”

“Thank you,” Louis shakily exhales, then hangs up.

Louis tries not to focus on the scenarios and situations and stupid things he might’ve said to Harry when he wasn’t himself. His head’s out of control, a wild storm out at sea. And there’s nothing he can do but ride the waves, take it as it goes. His brain doesn’t belong to just him, he duly notes.

He tightens his belt one notch, removes his cufflinks, and pretends he can’t hear the manic laughter that’s echoing in the back of his head.

-

Louis stands in front of Harry’s door for approximately thirteen minutes and forty-seven seconds. He rounds down because he doesn’t count the seconds it takes for him to walk to his own door and back to Harry’s. His heart is thumping in his throat as he raises his fist to finally knock. He’s about a half a centimetre away from making contact when the door swings open, startling him. He jumps, a hooded figure that’s about three inches taller than him making an appearance in the doorway.

“Fuck!” The figure looks up and it’s. It’s Harry. Harry who’s wearing a Packers beanie the grey hoodie Louis had left on his doorstep on his way to work. “Angel? What’re you― were you about to knock, I… Sorry. I was just about to run to the shop, I― Never mind. Come in.”

He steps aside, but Louis doesn’t move to go in, head spinning with fright. He’s never been this nervous before and he _hates_ it. He feels so vulnerable, like Harry can read every thought flashing across his face, in his eyes. It makes his throat close up.

“No! I mean, you can go. I’ll wait. Here.” He drops his head awkwardly, suddenly increasingly interested in the dirt on the toe of his shoe.

Harry scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous, I’ll go later, honestly, it’s not a big deal.” Harry gestures to the inside of his flat again. “Unless… you wanna come with me? We could talk on the way? If you want.” He looks just as abashed as Louis, trepidatious with this shy, shaking Louis that he’s evidently not used to. The other sides of him are bit more brave in stressful situations.

Louis sniffles at the silence, a nervous habit, as if he can clear the air of the awkwardness. “I’ll― yeah I’ll come with you.” He looks up, gauges Harry’s reaction, the way he lights up noticeably.

The taller boy smiles at Louis, flashing his square teeth. “Brilliant.” He shuts the door behind himself. “Just gonna run down the street, let’s go.”

They walk in silence for a minute or two, Harry’s keys jangling in his pocket, Louis’ scuffled footsteps on the sidewalk. Louis keeps coughing into the bend of his arm to fill the awkward quiet, to keep his brain from falling into a blurred, open state.

Harry breaks the rigid air between them. "So... you said you wanted to ask me things? What about?"

They’re pushing from the cold into the warmth of a bakery, one that Louis didn’t even know existed much less has been inside, when he responds. “About, um, just this last week. I―” He has a sudden burst of panic, because he really doesn’t know how to explain this to a near stranger, how to get him to recount the events to Louis who was technically _there_ , but didn’t even know it. “Fuck, I―”

Louis stops walking, leaving Harry tripping over his own feet halfway to the racks of muffins.

“Are you sure you’re alright? What’s wrong?”

Harry turns around and crosses the distance between them, searching Louis’ face for God-knows-what. There’s too much genuine concern lining his features, something Louis rarely sees in others unless it’s a mother to her children or two people in love. It always makes him cringe, they way people look at each other when they care, when they visibly adore someone _so much_ that you can see it in every nerve ending that makes up their face. For a long time, he wanted that for himself. He wanted to look at someone like that― He wanted someone to look at _him_ like that. But right now… right now it’s making his head spin and white blotches blur his vision.

“I have to― I have to go. M’sorry for. I’m― I’ll see you.” He regrets the promise the moment it slips past his lips, as he’s turning on his heel and bolting out of the shop and back out into the windy streets of a London night.

He wants to run, he really does, but he’s just so _tired_. He’s tired of running, tired of having to run from something that he inevitably has to face anyway. He’s physically too tired to run as well, too exhausted from the day, from the week, from trying to remember every forgotten moment of his life. It’s so _frustrating_ , and it weighs down on his heart, not knowing who he is sometimes. He just wants to rip out the part of his brain that’s doing this to him, wants to feel like he has some semblance of control over what goes on inside him if not out. He’s losing it, he knows, he’s got absolutely nothing left to keep him sane, not when his lungs have been shrink wrapped and his heart has been secured in triple tied boy scout knots.

The aforementioned heart skips a beat, maybe stops altogether, when an unanticipated hand on Louis’ shoulder halts him in his aggressive brisk walking. It probably takes little to no effort for the hand to swing his small body around, but his previous momentum is too great to prevent him from stumbling backwards at the sudden change in direction.

Harry catches Louis with a hand on his waist and the other tangled in his fingers. A quiet _woah_ slips past his lips as if it isn’t his fault that Louis is falling in the first place.

Louis lashes out, hot anger flashing behind his temples. “Get off of me,” he growls, feeling less like his normally insouciant self with each passing second.

Harry’s hand on his hip retracts instantly, but he doesn’t release Louis’ own from his semi-steadying grip.

“Hey,” his voice is soft, the deep rasp of it rumbling through him, through their hands, and into the base of Louis’ chest without his consent. “What’s the matter? Why’d you run?”

Louis wrenches himself away from Harry’s hand, his body betraying him _and_ the action as tears sting at the corners of his eyes. “I don’t know what you want me to say," he whimpers, "There’s nothing I _can_ say without sounding absolutely mental.”

“ _Angel_ ,” Harry whines, hot on his heels after he’s spun back around and resumed walking. “Listen, whatever happened that made you forget me doesn’t change how I know you and―”

Louis sees red for having to respond to name that isn't his. “God, you don’t _get_ it, do you? You don’t know me _at all_. I’m not who you’ve been talking to, hanging out with, who you’ve been _fucking_ for the last week. So just piss off and forget about me, alright?”

Harry’s frustrated groan is enough to tell Louis that this boy is different from anyone he’s ever known. “I― why don’t we start over? I might not know you, but I do know the boy I met on my balcony last week that was smoking a cigarette for no reason whatsoever most likely.” He huffs a sigh of relief when Louis’ pace slows; Louis wants to know more. “I could tell the change in you instantly, right after you asked me what I was doing there, you―” he chuckles at the memory, “You coughed out the smoke and muttered to yourself about ‘why does he still smoke these horrid things?’”

Louis’s never had anyone but Zayn witness when he… changed. He can’t imagine how strange it must’ve been, to watch his hunched over, boyish sulk instantly morph into what sounds like his Angel side.

“You know about that? Wait, y-you saw it? What was I like?” They’ve reached the front of their building again, and Louis feels momentarily bad that Harry didn’t get what he left the warmth of his flat for. “How did I―?”

“One question at a time,” Harry teases. “But I’m guessing these are the kinds of things you wanted to ask me?”

They step into the lift and Louis averts his eyes to the lit up number three. “Yeah,” he admits. “Didn’t really know how to, though. When it happens, Zayn usually just tells me things I said and did until it happens again. So I always know, but like. It’s never happened with anyone else and he’s never really told me about _how_ I change.” He notices that he’s starting to think of his other sides as separate from him, as different people and he wonders if maybe he should’ve been this whole time. They may be a part of him, but they’re not _him._ Not by a long shot.“I― you don’t think I’m mad?”

“No,” Harry says, a playful smirk pulling at the corners of his lips.

Harry opens the unlocked door of his flat and lets Louis slip in first. It’s weird, to be inside a place for the first time when there’s a huge chance that he’s already been before. The bare walls and distinct lack of furniture and colour trigger a strange sort of déjà vu, and it all comes rushing back to Louis all at once. He _has_ been here before, and he _remembers_.

He sways on his feet a bit at the force of the memory, shutting his eyes and trying to shake away the phantom feel of his hands on someone else, of someone’s hands on _him_. It makes his hands shake, and he brings them up to his hair to steady them, but it only results on him tugging on it, the sharp pain at least distracting him from whatever happened with Not-Louis and Harry right― right where he’s sinking to the ground most likely.

It doesn't come back to him in screaming colour; it's a messy blur of snapshots and sensations of the night, being laid out on a bed, his iron clad grip on anything he could reach. Every colourless flash of Harry is a pang in his chest, and he doesn't know if the moaning and rhythmic thumping he's hearing is him, inside his head, or not; if it is - was - even _real_.

Louis doesn’t notice that he’s mumbling _stopstopstop_ until he hears Harry’s voice in his ear. He can’t decipher the words, but the silky smooth rumble is enough to break through the haze.

It’s on impulse that he falls into Harry’s arms, noses his face into his chest. He’s crying, he realises, the flashback triggering a stabbing pain in his chest. Harry keeps asking if he’s alright, and he keeps shaking his head, thoughts in a tailspin at the crippling coalescence of old and new. The ache in his heart is painstakingly familiar, but the strong arms and tall body wrapped around him isn’t something he’d ever gotten the chance to get used to because he was always so weak and blacked out when it hurt.

“Hey, angel." And it's starting to sound more like a term of endearment than a name. "Please talk to me. Say anything, just let me know you hear me, please?” Harry’s voice is only half panicked, and something inside Louis squirms with the thought of Harry having done this before.

“M’sorry,” he croaks, the humiliation feeling like water overflowing his lungs. He wants to be angry, wants to push Harry away― but he can’t. He just doesn’t have the energy or the willpower to retreat from the one person in this godforsaken world that might care about him that isn’t obligated to by blood or longevity. 

“Don’t be sorry, s’not your fault.” He’s not rubbing Louis’ back or rocking him back and forth; Harry’s simply holding him like it’s the only thing Louis needs― and it is. Harry proceeds to further prove his creepily extensive knowledge of Louis by practically reading his mind. “This, uh, this happened before. Just wanted you to know. The first time I came over to yours. That first night. You―” he sighs softly, moving for the first time to tangle a tentative hand in Louis’ hair. “You took one look at the balcony and grabbed your head. Wasn’t like this but you kept say that you _remembered_ that you _had_ _to remember._ ” Louis doesn’t say anything, embarrassed beyond comparison. “What does that mean, Louis?”

Louis freezes up with a quiet gasp, feeling Harry stiffen underneath him in response.

This is what Louis was afraid of when he went to knock on Harry’s door; the things he would tell him, the things Harry knows that Louis doesn’t.

So Louis does what Louis does best: he runs. He runs from Harry’s flat, static in his ears, runs from the building with a fire in his gut, and runs through the park a few blocks away until he finds the secret niche he carved out for himself five years ago, all with a hammering in his head.

The last thing he remembers thinking before his head hits the ground is _I don’t want to be this way._

-

Zayn finds him.

Zayn finds him the next morning covered in dirt and leaves and tears. He heaves Louis up off the ground, out of the park, up to their flat. Once home, he orders Louis into the shower, leaves no room for argument, and leaves the bathroom. He returns twenty minutes later to find Louis curled up in a ball on the floor of the bathtub, the cold water beating down on his back. Zayn sighs and washes his hair for him and scrubs the dirt from his cheeks.

Louis’s a petulant child at the worst of times, crossing his arms and pouting, refusing to put clothes on or eat. Zayn is patient with him, as patient as Zayn can be at seven in the morning on a Saturday. There’s lots of throwing things, lots of threats and tears and soft encouragements. Louis’ regression is nothing new, but there’s the unasked question lingering uncomfortably in the air between them until noon, which is when Louis finally decides to make himself some cereal and at least put some boxers on. He picks his cartoon ones.

Zayn sits down next to him after a few minutes, silent, just staring at Louis with this blank expression on his face as if he can siphon the answers from Louis' head right through the air. Louis chooses to ignore it, knowing that Zayn will ask when he deems them both ready. Zayn has really good judgement, so Louis just tries to focus on keeping his head empty, blocking out any and every memory of the last twenty four hours. It's hard, because the more he tries to fight it the more persistent they get. They're like a vicious virus, multiplying by the second, attacking him with feelings from moments he can't even remember. But that's just science. Or something.

He just carries on eating his cereal, waiting for Zayn to make the first move.

It takes nearly an hour, and in between, Zayn turns on the television, watches two episodes of _Friends_ on mute, and makes himself a cup of tea. It's a bit like watching grass grow sitting and waiting for the inevitable break of the comfortable silence. It frustrates Louis, as well as bores him to death, and there's a startlingly sobering knot in his stomach by the time Zayn speaks.

"Spill it," he demands, and suddenly Louis doesn't want to.

"No," he counters easily.

Zayn angrily flicks the telly off, turns to face his best friend. "I was woken up at four in the fucking morning on a Saturday to your little fuck buddy pounding on the door and crying that _Angel_ had run off and wouldn't bloody shut up until I got you back here."

Louis' stomach churns uncomfortably, his mind too addled to separate anger from confusion from gratefulness. It's all a blur.

"l―" Louis stutters, trying to find the right words. "I remembered something. When I walked into his flat I had a flashback and then he said it'd happened before and he―" He hesitates, not wanting to sound more ridiculous than he already does most of the time.

Zayn's drumming his fingers on his thigh. "He what, Louis, spit it out."

Louis shakes his head, the shame filling his eyes with tears for the second time today.

" _Louis_."

"He started asking _questions,_ alright? He wanted to know shit that I don't even know _myself_ and I ran, okay? I ran away because that's all I'm good at."

Zayn groans, the type of groan that Louis knows is accompanied by an eyeroll without even looking up from his lap. “Louis,” he whines. He climbs across the distance between them and gathers a sniffling Louis into his arms. Louis falls into it easily, not having anywhere else to go, no reason to push him away. Because that’s all he wants; comfort. All the time. “For fuck’s sake, Tommo, you’ve got to quit this. Stop thinking you’re not allowed to say that you don’t know. You’re not perfect, no one is, you can’t always have the answers.” 

Zayn pauses. “And you’ve always got me, Louis,” he says, quieter, “Always, I promise.”

Louis doesn’t know what to say, really, because all he wants to do is keep berating himself so Zayn will keep countering him. Because that’s the only way anyone ever says anything remotely decent about him. It’s not that anyone puts him down, he just… He’d like someone to unconditionally tell him that he’s not all the fucked up shit the Devil sat in the back of his brain keeps telling him.

“No one ever sticks around, Z. You’ll be off one day, you’re gonna get on with your life, yeah? I don’t want you sitting around in this shit place because of me. I won’t hate you, I― Look, I just did him a favour, that’s all.”

Zayn presses a kiss to the top of Louis’ head, pulling him close. “Not really. You should’ve seen him, looked like he’d just run all over the city looking for you. He’d be lucky to have even a bit of you anyhow.”

“You’re lying,” Louis whispers, Zayn’s words not really clicking into any rational part of his brain, still feeling like a scared child with a scraped knee.

“I’m not, Louis. You’ve got to let people in, you know that? Not even just me, because you still don’t tell me half the shit I’d like you to. You deserve so much but you never give anyone the chance to show you that.” He rubs his hand in an uneven pattern over Louis’ shoulder. “They’re not all _him_ , Louis. They’re not all the people who’ve fucked you over. I won’t let anyone hurt you, I swear."

Louis moves to dislodge himself from Zayn’s hold, feeling a stab in his side, a clench of his heart. A dozen moments and memories flash across his vision for half a second; he doesn't know what they are, where they come from when this happens but they're terrifying so he tries to squirm from Zayn's arms to escape them anyway. Zayn doesn’t let him go, holds him fast and is surprisingly strong.

“Don’t―” Louis chokes out, struggling to get his head out of the tight ring of Zayn’s arms. “It’s, I― _fuck_ , let me _go!”_  

Zayn releases him. “Louis,” he sounds defeated, “You can’t keep ignoring it. You can’t keep dealing with this all on your own.”

“Watch me,” he says before stomping to his room.

He doesn’t come out for three days.

-

When Tuesday rolls around, and it’s the day before opening night, Louis’s at the theatre two hours early running through thrice times perfected lines with the lead’s understudy and stays two hours late helping the set designer make sure everything’s in order. He can feel himself slipping under the pressure of the upcoming show, and can only hope to any and every existing higher power that it’s his Angel side that takes over in the event that he goes toppling off the edge, he doesn’t know if his job can afford another Summer of 2012 _All of my clothes were stolen_ mishap.

Louis seeks out Niall before he leaves, reluctant to go home for fear of running into Harry. He's not spoken to anyone since his not-fight with Zayn, and as much as he hates people, he has no choice but to admit that he needs at least some bit of human interaction to stay somewhat sane and a member of humanity.

Niall greets him with a, “Hey Tommo!” as soon as he catches sight of Louis’ baggy jumper and black trousers.

“Hi Niall.” He offers as genuine a smile as he can muster. It’s nothing compared to the exuberance Niall’s exerting, but he tries.

Niall approaches him, arms outstretched and Louis complies with a half-hug, pulling back probably too soon but Niall knows him well enough to not push the boundaries. Louis silently thanks him for it.

“So what’s this about? You’re actually _talking_ to me! What have I done to deserve this absolute honour?”

He’s joking around, Louis knows, but he can’t help the twinge of guilt that passes through him at the implication of it.

Louis shoves his shoulder. “Shut up, I― I just needed someone to talk to. Things are a bit… strange.”

The blonde boy deposits himself onto a conveniently placed couch. “D’you wanna talk about it? Or just need some company.”

“Dunno why I don’t talk to you more often,” Louis replies honestly. Niall just _knows_. “How’re those Derby lads of yours doing then?”

He lets Niall launch into a full run through of the team’s season; stats and scores and new players and the absolutely juicy _drama_ that Louis couldn’t care less about. It’s blissful white noise, no questions asked, and Louis’s forgotten just how seamless it is to have Niall as a friend as well as a co-worker.

“― that Harry lad?”

Louis blinks rapidly, he’ll have to take that back, then. “What?”

“I said, ‘is this because of that Harry lad?’ He was around here in your pocket for like, four days in a row and now…” he trails off sadly, like it was a monumental loss.

“You know what,” Louis stands, “I just remembered I have a very important―”

Louis’s only just started gathering his things when Niall shouts, “No! Louis, wait. I’m sorry. You said you didn’t wanna talk about it. We won’t. I’m sorry.”

Louis hesitates. “I really don’t,” he sits back down, curls in on himself, “Please don’t make me.” His voice comes out rougher than he intended. “I just want to have a normal day.”

Niall laughs. “Having boy problems is like, the epitome of normal, Louis. More action than I’m getting, Jesus.”

Louis wants to laugh, he really does, because it’s so typically Niall of him to say that. Whether he meant it as a joke or as genuine comfort, though, Louis still doesn’t know how to tell.

“The circumstances surrounding the origin of said ‘boy problems’ aren’t exactly the ‘epitome’ of ‘normal.’” So he goes a little overboard with the air quotes, sue him. “So I’d really appreciate it if you could just― please.” Louis gives up, feeling more exhausted than usual.

Niall stands up abruptly, making Louis drop his script. “Alright then. C’mon.” He’s shrugging on his coat and pulling Louis out of the theatre too fast for Louis’ taste.

“Wha―” he splutters, trying to keep up and failing. He’s tripping over his own feet, unable to release himself from Niall’s iron grip, wondering how the hell those chicken legs can carry him so fast.

“Niall,” Louis deadpans, impatiently as he’s tripping down the sidewalk. “Niall, just tell me where we’re going.”  
The Irish _menace_ doesn’t respond, but rather turns his head and winks, pulling Louis along quicker. Louis doesn’t argue, much too tired and desperate to do nothing but let Niall drag him through the streets, let the silence lay until they stop in front of a dingy pub. Louis crashes into Niall at the sudden halt.

“Louis,” Niall announces with a smirk, “We’re going _out_.”

-

_Harry_

Harry doesn’t take his job very seriously. It’s only been a few weeks since he’s moved to London and got settled in with his part time job at the record shop down the street. It’s a cheap record store owned by a rich man who’s a shitty gift giver. So, naturally, the store is overstaffed and the workers are overpaid and not even the owner’s son, whose gift it was in the first place, is obligated to show up.

So the only thing Harry takes seriously is the amount of days he gets paid for sitting on the old couch in his new flat reading and smoking and petting his cat. 

Except now, it’s been a week since something’s been plaguing his mind, and his seemingly worry-free life has gone to shit because he wanted to have some fun. He never meant to fall in so deep, he’d just thought the mysterious figure on the balcony was looking for a one night stand, someone easily disposable. That’s what Harry knows he is, something for everyone to pick up, say _Ohh, shiny, pretty thing_ and throw to the curb before it becomes too much trouble.

But he indulged the soft voice floating through the night, the tantalising shadow that begged him to come and play. It wasn’t seductive, but playful, and he fell for the act, he let himself be roped in by the polite invitation to come over and _let me entertain you, those pages aren’t gonna do you any good_. His argument was feeble, half-hearted at best, and he acquiesced. Because that’s what Harry does best. Harry thought it was his turn to play, his turn to be the one to decide when enough was enough. Even when the coquettish little minx turned into an actual rogue, it was still fun. He saw it as a game, took the mercurial, unpredictable days in stride, played along.

But here Harry is again, losing the game, hopelessly confused and thrown the side. He doesn’t know what he’s done, what he’s missed. Maybe it's to keep Harry on his toes, to keep up the _game_.

He sits on his sofa thinking about it, staring at the door of his flat as Fuschia plays with the drawstring on his shorts. He's been drinking, comfort drinking, a few glasses of wine to make him feel fancy and fill his bladder. He thinks he hears a knock on his door, but he's been hearing a lot of things in the last hour.

But then it sounds again, and it's the distinct knock he and had Angel setup for each other after Harry had opened the door for an expecting delivery boy in nothing but his special blue panties. (Needless to say he’ll never be ordering Thai from _there_ again.) 

"Who's there?" he calls as he gets up, just to be sure.

There's a groan on the other side of the door. "Its your Angel, you halfwit. Let me in."

Harry lights up immediately, recognizing the high pitched Scottish accent through the wood. He swings the door open and in less than half a second has an armful of dainty boy.

"Is it really you?"

Angel rolls his eyes. "Of course it's me. Sorry I was being a bit weird, I was just playing around. Just a joke." He smiles menacingly, sharp incisors peaking out at the force of it. “Didn’t mean to scare you. Actually did have a bit of a memory thing though, thanks for being your charming self about it.” 

He wraps his arms around Harry's neck, and God help him, he's _missed_ this. It’s been barely a day and he’s missed this more than he thought possible.

“Course I would, love.” His hands drift from Angel's waist to his cheeks, and he kisses him softly on the nose. “I just― you’re the strangest human I’ve ever encountered.”

"Alright, alright. That's enough talk for today, Harry lad." He's trying to work open the button on his trousers with one hand. "We've got quite a bit of lost time to make up, plus tomorrow's _Saturday."_

He's managed to back Harry up against the now closed door, pushing his shirt nearly up to his neck and getting to work on reviving the fading love bites. It takes everything in Harry, _everything_ , to stop the hand that's drifting down the front of his boxers. He's Superman, he swears.

''Hey, wait." He can feel the unconvincing flush on his cheeks. "As much as I'd love, y'know, _that_. I, uh, can we just hang out for a bit? Still mates, yeah?"

Because that's what Harry keeps telling himself, that they're at least friends despite the benefits, that it's not completely meaningless.

Angel's face softens, not removing his hand all the while looking at Harry so fondly. This what Harry craves, intimacy and a companion all in one convenient package.

"Yeah, alright." He takes his hand out of Harry's trousers and slaps it lightly against his cheek. "Let's see if you can make it through a film, Handsy Styles."

"Excuse me," Harry protests indignantly, "I've got plenty of self control. You're the one that came in here about ready to―"

"Don't, just don't. I swear to Christ..."

Harry smirks, "What?"

"I'll get you, Styles, I swear it." His accent curls around the words adorably. Harry can't help but smile for real, dimples giving him away.

He pinches Angel's bum and runs. "You'll have to catch me first!"

Angel humours him, chases him the five feet to the kitchen where Harry trips and grabs him around the waist from behind. He tackles Harry to the floor seemingly gently, letting Harry land on top of him with a grunt and a groan. Harry flips himself over so they're nose-to-nose, kisses his Angel gently on the lips.

"I've just got one question for you." He pulls back a bit, rests his chin on one hand. 

"Go for it, Curly."

"Where'd you get your name from?" Harry keeps talking before Angel gets a chance to say whatever he's opened his mouth for. "And before you say your parents, I wanna know like, why Angel of all things? I mean, you're the furthest thing from."

There's an eyeroll and a sarcastic punch from below Harry before he gets a response. "I resent that."

"But it's true."

“I― fine. Okay, I’ll tell you.” He looks thoughtful for a moment, a long moment, and Harry’s on the edge of his extremely comfortable seat. “I have no idea.” 

Harry snorts. "Surely your parents had let slip the reason or part of it at some point?"

"No." Something dark flickers in his eyes, and he leans up to kiss Harry deeply, probably hoping he wouldn't notice. ''How's about that film then?"

"Yeah," Harry gives what he hopes is a comforting smile, "I'd like that."

-

_Louis_

When Louis returns to consciousness it’s to his eyes shut tight, hands white knuckling beside him and a mouth wrapped around his dick. His first thought is that it’s a dream, a good one at that, and hips unintentionally jump up off the door that he’s apparently pinned against for more. Louis revels in the sensation for a moment, before he hears a moan below him that definitely doesn’t belong to him. He forces one eye open, realising that he is, indeed, standing up, and he sways on his feet. He’s not dreaming like he first thought, and it’s as if a flip switches in his brain when he gasps loudly, pushing back the curly head of hair from between his legs, watches as its owner stumbles back, falls onto his bum.

“What the _fuck_?!” Louis now recognises the voice and face as Harry, who’s wiping his chin and seeming all kinds of outraged and confused. “There’s other ways to say _stop_ , you don’t have to fucking _push_ me.”

Louis hastily pulls his boxers up, bile and shame crawling up his throat unconsciously. He suddenly feels so unreasonably _disgusting_ and confused beyond all rational thought. He collapses to the floor, trying to make sense of the situation, of why it feels like something in his brain is trying to claw itself out.

"Wait, hey." Harry's stood up now, voice softer as he notices Louis' distressed state. "Hey, you alright? Did I do something wrong?"

Louis shakes his head, no words able to make their way past his harsh sobs. He can't move if he tried, he's pretty sure, the crushing weight in his chest spreading all over and he hopes to God he doesn't pass out like this.

"Angel?" It's not Louis' name and it makes him sick. Harry's crouched down beside now, whispering things he doesn't want to hear. So Louis pushes him away. ''Hey, just let me in. I know you don't mean it, s'just me, yeah?"

"No," Louis spits. "It’s not you, it’s not Angel, just leave me the fuck alone." He feels a rush of panic at letting slip that he's not who Harry thinks he is. 

But Harry catches it of course he does, the attentive bastard.

"What do you mean it's not Angel?" His voice hasn't changed its tone one bit. "Are you playing around again?"

"I― what the fuck are you talking about?" Angel’s been spewing lies about him, then.

Harry’s whole face turns an alarming shade of red, his voice dropping to a whisper, “Please tell me you’re just playing around.”

Louis’ stomach turns uncomfortably, because he’s lost, confused, missing the last twelve hours in his mind. “I’m not joking, Harry. I want to go home.”

There’s one of three things Louis expects Harry to do: he’s either going to stand up and let him leave, ask him again to please stop fucking around, or ask him to just stay. But Harry once again aims for the unexpected and wraps his arms around him, suffocating him and making him choke on his tears. He doesn’t want this, he doesn’t _know_ Harry and everything inside his head is telling him to just fuck off and never come back.

“Please,” Louis voices cracks, “Please just let me go.”

Harry shakes his head where he’s buried it forcefully in Louis’ neck. “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

Louis extends his arms from where they’re curled against his chest, hastily standing up and crossing over to the sofa. “Will you just―” Harry stands up and blocks the door, “I don’t fucking _know_ , Harry. I don’t. I can’t―”

He sits down, a million alternate scenarios playing in his head that would make more sense than this mess. Harry’s not making any sense, and neither is he, and maybe he _is_ dreaming. The line between dreams and reality has blurred into black and white smudges along his conscious and unconscious and it’s getting a little fucking out of hand.

“I don’t know what’s real anymore, Harry.”

Harry moves from the door, sidles around to the opposite end of the couch, finally concluding that he should keep his distance, and for that Louis is grateful.

“Your accent’s gone again,” he notes like it’s something Louis’s done on purpose.

Louis curls up on the couch, head in his knees, taking in the unfamiliar smell of scented candles that he hadn’t noticed the first time. “S’not mine,” he whispers. “It never was.”

“Angel, I―”

“ _Stop_ calling me that,” Louis hisses through clenched teeth. “Let’s start there, shall we?” He lifts his head off of his knees and ironically reaches a hand out across the couch. “Hi, I’m Louis. Nice to meet you.”

Something between anger and confusion flickers across Harry’s face before it settles into a passive look, and he takes Louis’ hand in his.

“Harry.”   


Louis sighs in relief, retracts his hand. He doesn’t know where to start, how much to trust Harry with. It seems him and Angel are pretty close if their previous position is anything to go by, but Louis doesn’t know if they ever _talked_ , and he doesn’t want to confuse Harry any more by asking.

“Look,” the words are tripping over each other to get out, but he won’t let them, “Sometimes I’m not myself, and I don’t know how to explain it. I blackout, I do things I shouldn’t or perhaps things I should that I don’t when I’m ‘awake’ and I don’t remember them. You ended up being one of those things, it seems. I don’t really know what I do when I’m like that, so if you want to know maybe you can ask Zayn? Or something? If he wants to tell you he will.” He’s not making any sense, he sounds out of his mind and the words hang heavy in the air around him. “Did you and _Angel_ ever talk, like, seriously?”

“I’ll be honest,” Harry looks a bit dejected about the answer, “All you ever―”

“Not me,” Louis corrects immediately.

“ _He_ ever wanted to do was fuck. Honestly. Every time I asked a question he just… pushed me down, shut me up. I didn’t mind, but. I want to be _friends_ and it’s a bit frustrating.”

Angel isn’t so different from him after all, he remembers. There’s something inside him shoving them both into the same unforthcoming ways. He hardly tells Zayn anything, why should Angel be divulging any information with a stranger that’s not his to share, anyway?

Louis scoffs. “Sounds like me, then. Minus the sex part. Don’t like to talk much.” He keeps forgetting that Harry’s a complete stranger, keeps forgetting that he needs to shut up and leave _now._

Harry seems to be forgetting the same thing. “I want to get to know you, too, Louis.” He says Louis’ name like it’s foreign on his tongue. “You’re the one that called out to me in the first place, weren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Louis barely remembers at this point, all of his days and hours being stolen, “I guess I was.”

Harry nods like that’s all the answer he needs. “Wanna go for a walk, then? Have a smoke, talk about you? Or me, if you don’t want to. I’d like all the sides of you to know me, Louis. I’d like to know all the sides of you, too. If you’ll have me, since this part of you seems less likely to jump my bones if I ask what your favourite colour is.” A barely contained smile tugs at the previously drooping corners of Louis’ lips. “You’ve got a lovely smile, y’know. Might not’ve been you, but it sure looked like you.”

Louis’ heart thumps against his ribs, saying _don’tdon’tdon’t._ But he remembers what Zayn told him, that he needs to give people a chance.

“Red.”

“What?”

He turns to face Harry without actually looking at him.“My favourite colour is red.”

Harry’s answering smile is blinding, pure happiness and contentment at the trust that Louis is displaying, painful as it is. It blows Louis’ mind, and maybe he’s alright after all, maybe it won’t kill him to let someone in.

-

At the start, Louis seriously underestimates Harry's ability to be there for him. He's there in the morning with a travel mug of tea when Louis is leaving for the theatre, in the evening with a muffin outside the theatre when Louis is leaving, and at night with a text message of a random knock-knock joke. It's put Louis' mind at ease, the knowledge that someone other than Zayn is voluntarily talking to him and learning his quirks and habits and limits. It keeps Normal Louis in control, so Harry hasn't gotten to see his Angel for a while, but he doesn't seem to mind. He's taking it in stride, having a new friend even when the one he's gotten used to has essentially been stolen from him.

Louis tells him things, meaningless things but things nonetheless. It starts off easily enough, things that Louis lets slip that bring a smile to Harry's face, things that Harry picks up subliminally during their walks from the theatre. Sometimes Louis is doing it on purpose, telling Harry how much he loves _Grease_ or about his little sisters back home. And in turn Harry tells him how much he loves to bake, shows him even. Harry tells him how he's scared of thunderstorms over a plate of cookies the first time Louis comes over to Harry's flat on his own volition for the first time since 'the incident.'

They play Chutes and Ladders, because it's raining hard and Harry's cable is out and Louis's too tired for a movie. He admits to Harry that he's afraid of falling asleep because he never really can be sure where he's going to wake up, or when. If. 

"I understand that, actually." And Louis thinks he's mocking him for a moment. "I used to sleepwalk a whole bunch when I was younger. Woke up down the road in my boxers eating a box of Weetabix one morning."

"Scary, innit?" Harry nods solemnly. "At first I always think I'm dreaming. And like, it doesn't happen a lot. So."

Harry doesn't answer, knows he doesn't have to. He’s spent some time over at Louis and Zayn’s, asked Louis to explain the ominous silences between them. Harry admitted that he didn't fully understand, but he accepted it, never presses further or seems uncomfortable by it, and for that Louis is more than thankful.

"We still on for tomorrow?" Harry asks eventually. 

Louis falters. "Tomorrow?" He moves his blue game piece up four squares, ends up behind Harry's when he lands on a chute. "Ah, fuck."

Harry spins the wheel, frowning. "Thought you said you wanted to go try that new Italian place? I made reservations."

A smack to his forehead later Louis is rambling an apology. "I'm so sorry, I-I dunno how I forgot. _Shit_." He picks up his piece and throws it across the room in frustration, tears springing to his eyes. "Bloody useless."

"Hey," Harry reaches across the table and loosens Louis' grip on his hair, takes his hands in his own. "None of that. You forgot, that's why I'm reminding you. Why, have you got a date with someone more important?" He smirks.

Louis snorts morbidly. "I wish I did. Wouldn't have to spend all my time with a loser like you." He's obviously joking, his tone and smile hopefully securing Harry's knowledge of that.

"I am truly offended," Harry announces.

"You are a bit of a loser, even you have to admit it." Louis tries to ignore the way Harry's absentmindedly toying with his fingers.

"At least I'm not the hipster in this relationship."

He says it so seamlessly that Louis feels like he's overreacting when his heart unintentionally skips a beat. The word sets his mind into a frenzy and he just feels stupid for being so terrified. He hasn't had even a semblance of a relationship since, since... Yeah.

Harry takes note of his prolonged silence. "You alright? Don't need an explanation, just yes or no is fine." 

Louis looks down at their adjoined hands, lips set into a tight line. His skin feels like a livewire where Harry's touching him, and Harry seems to notice that, too. He retracts his hands, busying them by cleaning up the messy pile of game pieces they created earlier.

Louis nods, "Just... remembered something. Surprised me a bit. Haven't thought about it in a while."

The shift in the air is obvious, and once again Louis's put a damper on the whole of the room, this time without even saying anything. It's becoming disappointingly effortless.

"Why not?" Harry dares. His tone is wary, like he knows he's hitting a nerve. But it's already been struck, there's not much more damage he can do.

"You've been distracting me, to be honest."

It means a lot, what Louis's just said, but Harry's either not really listening or he pretends not to realise. 

"You don't, uh, you don't wanna talk about it, do you?" 

He's pushing, and Louis takes the bait.

"I―" His hands have started to tremble where they've remained on the table. "Not particularly, no... Not yet." 

Harry catches it though, and doesn't do much to hide his smile besides ducking his head. But Louis can see, and it still amazes him how the simplest promise for more information always has Harry giggling like a little kid in a sweet shop.

"Yet?" he whispers.

"Yet." Louis affirms.

Seriously underestimated.

-

_Harry_

He should've seen it coming.

If there's one thing Harry prides himself , it's his newly-and-quickly acquired ability to read Louis. Louis is nothing like the Angel he thought he'd come to know, he's completely different, a whole other person in every sense. Their mannerisms, speech habits, ticks and twitches are nowhere close to being the same. And so Harry's felt like he's had to start all over after a bout of amnesia, but he's faring quite well if he does say so himself.

And dinner’s going well, spectacularly actually. There’s no pressure of it being a date, Harry not really needing to impress the person he spends most of his time with anyway. Besides that, he’s not sure if him and Louis are on the same page. Harry loves Louis, he thinks, maybe is a little biased from the Angel he knew that’s hidden in Louis somewhere, but he definitely likes him a lot, probably fancies him, even. More than that, they’re _friends_ and Harry undoubtedly trusts him, in a way he knows he probably shouldn’t. He feels like he can though, feels like he really knows Louis, and that’s why he should’ve noticed.

Louis’s been snippy lately, Harry’s noticed that much, saw the way every question has made him close off just that much more. He couldn’t ask what was wrong, knew that if he did he’d be facing anger or fear. It’s like working with a scared puppy, he’ll either lash out or run away. 

And right now he’s being really fidgety, picking at his fettuccine as if one wrong move and it’ll explode in his face. He’s telling a story, something about a set that fell on one of the dancers today, but his heart is soul-crushingly not into it. Harry can see right through the fake laughs. So, Harry cuts him off, he most likely shouldn’t, but he’s worried. 

“You alright, Lou?”

Louis’ eyes drift shut, like he’s trying to compose himself. “M’fine.” He resumes the story like nothing happened, in the same half-hearted uninterested tone as before.

It’s like an itch Harry can’t scratch, seeing him so passive and indifferent when he’s seen Louis in his passionate element when he’s working in the theater or watching one of his favourite films. “Really, if something’s bothering you, we can just go. I know the noise bothers you and if―”

“I said I’m _fine_ , Harry. Alright?” His jaw clenches and his posture improves significantly as he slams a hand down on the table rougher than necessary but not hard enough that anyone turns around. His voice is about three octaves deeper when he speaks next, his accent changing and growing more gruff than before. “Will you just leave me alone?”

And before Harry can even blink, Louis’ grabbing his jacket and storming out of the restaurant, grumbling to himself and digging around his pockets for something, seeming to come up empty. That just makes him more angry, his frustrated groan fading out of earshot as he rushes from the restaurant, leaving Harry with his jaw dropped open and not enough money to cover the bill. He hastily just throws down what he has before anyone can question it and makes a beeline for outside. He’s hardly had a chance to shrug his coat on before he’s sprinting towards where he sees a dark shadow turning a corner.

“Louis!” he shouts futilely. He knows the boy won’t come back, won’t turn around if he’s truly ticked off, probably can’t even hear him. “Lou!”

He turns the corner to find the next street empty, slowing from to a run to a jog to a walk. He doesn’t know what he’s done, but the immediate change he saw in Louis frightened him, and he’s afraid, genuinely afraid. He doesn’t know where Louis’s gone, doesn’t know when he’ll be back.

Hell, Harry doesn’t even know _who_ Louis was.

-

_Luke_

Luke hates Louis. It’s not in a gentle way like the way Angel hates him, the way he has this uncontrollable need to make things better, to make him stop hating himself like he owes Louis or something. Luke hates Louis so much it _hurts_ sometimes, in a genuinely malicious way, and Louis’ self pity is like a poison when Luke’s not out to play, unable to hurt Louis in the only ways he knows how. 

Luke's thought about killing Louis many times, and many of those times have been when he’s stuck up in Louis’ head reliving his worst memories because he’s the one who’d witnessed the most horrific ones, no matter how many times Angel claims that he’s taken the brunt of it. Angel’s always there with a stern hand when he’s concocting half suicidal, half homicidal plans with a fair fight, kicking his ass and telling him that if he even _dares_ harm Louis he’ll kill _him_. Luke isn’t sure if he can do that or not, but he’s smart enough to not risk putting an end to his drunken endeavors and nights of short-lived fun that a lot of the others can never even dream of having.

Luke doesn’t find a club after storming out the restaurant for a while, roaming abandoned streets until he gives in and calls for a taxi. Louis seems to have a lot of cash on him tonight, probably for whatever kind of weird date thing he was just on. The thought of feeling even somewhat remorseful for ruining that bloke’s night makes Luke chuckle to himself maniacally, making the cab driver look back at him the rearview mirror.

By the time he’s found a club and is three pints in, he’s bored. Luke gets bored easily, with setting, with people, it’s one of the reasons he hates when he comes out and Zayn is there. Zayn tries to be _nice_ to him, because they’ve been friends for so long, but honest to God, Luke hatesthe _sight_ of him.

Luke’s not much of a dancer, but the lithe little body he’s been blessed to possess always seems to do the trick. So he makes his way to the centre of the dance floor, brushing amorously along the backside of every girl he passes just to catch their attention. Some of them abandon their previous dance partners at the very sight of him, some of them don’t, choosing to flash him dirty looks. It’s a rush, just like it always is, just getting a reaction out of people, getting eyes on him. It’s maddeningly pleasurable in every sense of the word, and he feeds off of it like an _addict_.

Once Luke’s had his fill of teasing the shit out of everyone, he returns to his barstool with three girls tripping over each other to get at him, batting their lashes, and he feels more than a little satisfied. He suddenly remembers the wad of Louis’ money that’s burning a hole in his back pocket, proceeding to buy the lovely ladies drinks with it. Louis’ phone buzzes in Luke’s pocket at one point, a message from _Harold xx_ lighting up the screen. Luke’s alcohol addled brain decides that he’s going to have a little fun, fuck things up a way that’ll keep Angel at bay with his “he doesn’t even _know_ ” bullshit. It’s entertaining, but his voice is just fucking _shrill_ sometimes.

-

_Harry_

Harry doesn’t know what else to do besides return to his flat until he remembers that he actually does own a phone.

He sends a text to _Angel/Louis_ ’ number saying _where’d you gooo?? :(_ before sitting down on his sofa and stress eating an entire container of microwave cheese sticks. He’s halfway through pulling the mozzarella from a stick with his teeth when his phone buzzes aggressively on the coffee table. Harry reaches for it hastily, a string of cheese hanging messily from his lips.

_just about to get my dick sucked, if youd kindly fuck off ;)_ is the reply he gets. There’s a twinge of inexplicable betrayal in Harry’s chest. He feels like he’s being cheated on, which is _stupid_ because they’re not even _dating_. He thinks on it, thinks how this is startlingly _not_ Louis. He'd told himself that he knows Louis well enough, tells himself _now_ that a month and a bit is long enough to be able to tell when someone you've spent most of that time with is behaving drastically uncharacteristically.

Harry concludes that no side of Louis could be malicious enough to be telling the truth about something like this, so he decides to not entertain the game of _whoever_ and make a fool of himself. 

He wedges his phone between the couch cushions and picks up Fuschia from her perch on Harry's knee. He kicks off his shoes on the way to his room, wiggles out of his jeans and sets Fuschia down to yank his shirt over his head. There's a lump forming in his throat as he crawls underneath his banana printed sheets, Fuschia headbutting him to let her cuddle. He lifts the sheets and his arm and pulls her close to his chest, nuzzling his face into her grey fur. 

"At least I know you're not going anywhere, eh love?" he mumbles redundantly.

Fuschia mews softly, shifting and stretching so her head is tucked under his chin. She's getting fat, Harry notes, but he'll never love her any less.

"Don't need a stupid boy when I've got my favourite girl."

He strokes her tummy until he falls asleep, wondering what he's ever done to deserve all this hurt.

-

Harry wakes up to someone in his room grumbling about shoes and the dark. He sits up suddenly, scaring Fuschia away.

"Bloody fucking wanker, who needs this many fucking―?

"Angel?"

The shadow jumps, gasping in fright and stumbling backwards before running at the bed and leaping at Harry.

"Hazza!" He wraps his arms around Harry's neck, hugging him tightly. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"It's alright," he lowers his voice, "More than alright... I've missed you." He genuinely has, missed this person he'd been falling for initially.

"I've been here the whole time, idiot."

Harry pushes him into the pillows playfully. "You've not been you, and it's driving me nuts." He kisses his Angel soundly on the lips, just because he can again, earning a crinkly eyed smile that he hasn't seen in ages.

"Ah, yeah," Angel replied somberly, still smiling, "Louis's told you, then. Guess that's a good thing. He trusts you."

The night comes flashing back to him. "I don't think so. He sort of ran out on our, um... date. Tonight." He frowns, watching Angel's face melt into some sort of amused pity.

"Wasn't a date, love. He's so afraid of that." He brushes Harry's cheekbones with the backs of his knuckles.

"But why? I've been―"

"It's not you, H. But it's not my place to tell you either. He hardly knows half the things that have made him the way he is."

Things are getting too complicated for Harry. Angel seems to notice.

"You don't have to deal with this, Harry. It's rough and it's confusing and one or all of us will do things we don't mean and we're gonna hurt you and ourselves." He sighs sadly. "Don't feel like you have to stay. It's gonna do you more harm than good in the long run."

Harry doesn't know what to say. His gut is telling him to turn tail and run, kick this three-in-one boy out of his flat and move on with his life. He should save himself the inevitable heartbreak and hurt that Angel literally just warned him is bound to come. But his heart is telling him to give it a chance, one it deserves, to be accepting of everything this person is slowly but surely becoming to him. It's been such a short amount of time, but Harry's heart seems to know something he doesn't.

Harry's head though, Harry's head is desperately trying to act as a mediator, weighing the pros and cons and confusing the shit out of him.

Suddenly Harry realizes that the course of their entire friendship, relationship― _whatever_ , (something that's been making him _happy)_ is reliant on his next move.

Harry goes on impulse, he thinks, because it's somewhat of natural reaction to the way he's hovering over his Angel that he crushes their lips together. He lets his whole body settle on and around the smaller boy's, holding his face tenderly in his hands.

"I'll be here as long as you'll have me."

Angel smiles against his mouth, hands drifting up Harry's side to rest on his bare hips. They're quiet for a while until Angel breaks it.

"What do you say we try this whole date thing for real?"

Harry's heart does a flip in his chest that would put an Olympic gymnast to shame.

"Yeah?" It comes out squeakier than he would've liked. 

Angel nods. "Yeah. Just― try to be gentle with Louis when he comes back, alright? He's gonna be scared and confused if he's not in his own bed. Just tell him what happened while he was gone, he hates not knowing."

Harry's pays rapt attention to the rest of Angel's instructions, listens especially closely when he talks about Luke, who was apparently the one that ran out on him. Angel tells him that it's fairly easy to tell when Louis is Luke, bar his American accent and gruff voice, and that he doesn't come out as much as Angel does. Angel also explains that Louis can be a bit of a child sometimes, and when he crosses his arms and pouts, he shouldn't be indulged.

Harry feels like he should be taking notes, and Angel seems to sense how overwhelmed he is... again.

"You'll learn, it's alright."

Harry nods, wrapping his arms back around Angel, laying his head under his chin so he'll play with Harry's curls.

_I hope so,_ he thinks.

-

It's an hour before Harry and Angel's first official date, and Harry's palms are sweating because he can't figure out if he should wear the purple tie or the coral blue one. He's been standing in front of his full length mirror for the better part of ten minutes when Angel comes into view in the glass wearing nothing but a pair of briefs, looking very uncomfortable.

"The blue one," a small voice suggests.

"You think so?" Harry holds it up to his neck, and it's starting to look more greenish than blue.

"Definitely, um." Harry turns around at the nervous tone, concerned. "Can I ask you something?"

Harry's worried now, but he nods. "Anything, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," Angel is quick to amend. "Just― you don't have like... an extra pair of knickers, do you?"

Harry nods, a bit confused but liking the possibility of where this is going. "I do."

"Do you think, um," And Christ he's blushing _crimson_ , "Could I borrow a pair?" He says it fast, the words stringing together.

Harry thinks he gets it now, can't imagine why he's so embarrassed when they've been through a version of this already but reversed. He goes for a somewhat sexy smirk and an eyebrow thing to let Angel know he's on board. But Angel's quick to shut the idea down before he even gets a chance to speak.

"Not. It's not a sex thing. I just― I don't much like boy’s underwear. Boy things in general… But it's all Louis has. It's always been so uncomfortable and. They just don't feel _right_."

He's staring at the floor, sounding a bit hysterical and on the verge of tears. Harry rushes to throw down the ties in his hands and cross the room.

"Hey," he grabs Angel's chin gently, forcing their eyes to meet. “There’s no reason to be embarrassed. You deserve to be comfortable as much as everyone else. Plus,” he adds, “Look who you’re asking to borrow girl’s underwear _from_ , c’mon.” He raises his eyebrows questioningly, because he knows he’s right.

That gets a smile out of Angel, who wraps his arms around Harry. Harry presses a kiss to the top of his Angel’s head, hearing a muffled _thank you_ from somewhere in his mostly unbuttoned shirt.

“Don’t have to thank me. Thank _you_ for trusting me.” He pulls away, backs up towards his bureau and opens his underwear drawer. "You can pick whichever you’d like.” 

Angel picks the newest looking pair, reasonably; they’re hot pink with lime green polka-dots and a little white bow on the waistband and Harry honestly doesn’t even remember buying them. Harry tries very, very hard not to let it affect him when Angel slips them on, and he succeeds for the most part. He might be blushing, though.

“They look nice, love.”

Angel flushes all the way down to his chest, grip tightening on the briefs in his hand. “Thank you.”

Harry shakes his head fondly, smiling softly. “Go get dressed before we’re late.”

Angel scurries off with a smile on his face that looks grateful, comfortable, and most importantly, happy.

-

_Louis_

It doesn’t take long for Louis to realise he’s not in his own bed. Once he registers that, he takes in the fact that he’s _naked_ and plastered to someone’s back. He’s getting that weird feeling of déjà vu again, and he has a flash of crawling into this bed, but anything theoretically sexual that most likely occurred doesn’t slip past his amnesia.

The moment he notices the curls in his face, he starts to panic.

“H-Harry?” He squirms away from the sleeping body, who turns out to not be sleeping after all.

“Mm? Lou? S’that you?” He turns over, eyebrows drawn together in concern. “You back?”

“I―” Louis doesn’t know. “I guess so. Why am I here?” He feels sick, still trying to create distance between them without losing the sheets over his waist.

Harry doesn’t seem fazed, or sleepy, and he’s rummaging under the covers for something. After a moment of silence, he comes up with a pair of boxers.

“You can put these on if you want. But if you wanna get your own clothes, I’ll leave while you change. Or I can lend you something. Whatever you wanna do, it’s completely up to you.”

Louis’s confused, afraid, a thousand questions on the tip of his tongue. He takes the boxers with a shaky hand. 

“Can I have a pair of joggers?”

Harry’s standing up and crossing the room before he even answers. “Course. I’ll give you a jumper too, that alright?”

Louis feels the echo of a headache as he nods shakily. By the time Harry’s handed him the clothes and left, abandoning him with his thoughts, he’s more than ready to start crying. Luckily for him, Harry’s bathroom is in his room, and he escapes there after he pulls on the clothes, which are much too big for him, hastily. He doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t want to see himself in the mirror, doesn’t want to see the remnants of all the things he’s missed once again. He’s sick of living like this, sick of the lost time and broken memories. He doesn’t want to feel this terrified of himself anymore, he doesn’t want to feel so alone _all the time_.

It’s still dark outside, so the small window above the sink doesn’t provide much light. He shuts the light, and the door, and crawls into the bathtub, scrubbing at his face as if his hands will stop the tears. 

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, thinking about how fucked up he is, trying to pinpoint the moment where things went so horribly wrong. Louis desperately wishes that he knew more than the nightmares and flashbacks of days and nights he can barely remember. When Zayn says things to him and he just doesn’t _understand_ what he’s talking about it’s― it’s frustrating and confusing all the same. He doesn’t know what’s _wrong_ with him. He knows that something’s off, knows that none of this can possibly be _normal_ and Christ, he’s properly crying now.

He’s pathetic, he thinks to himself, he’s stupid and fucked up and he’s sitting in his neighbour's bathtub sobbing over his fucked up brain and his fucked up life and Harry’s probably wondering― _shit_. Harry.

And speak of the devil, ironically, there’s a knock on the bathroom door. Louis doesn’t know what else to do but try and pretend that he isn’t, in fact, choking on air just before Harry pushes the door open and calls his name.

“Lou?” Louis winces, wondering why the fuck the nickname still bothers him, and when he’s going to tell Harry that it does. “What’re you―”

“Nothing.”

He didn’t pull the shower curtain closed, stupidly, so when he looks up he gets to see the curiosity on Harry’s face switch to immediate worry. Harry crouches down in front of the tub, and Louis points out that if he stays there too long his knees will hurt.

“Fuck my knees, Louis, are you alright?”

Louis nods, shakes his head, nods again, then shrugs. "It's complicated," he tries.

Harry reaches a hand over to him, gently as he possibly can, it seems. Then, either a force field produced by Louis' vicious glare or Harry's wits coming back to him stops the action halfway. But he mulls over it for a moment, appearing to go with _fuck it_ and runs his fingers across Louis' fringe. Louis doesn't know how to react, what to say. He just turns his head to the side and attempts to retreat further into the back corner of the tub.

"Lou. Do you wanna go home?" He brings his hand back, thank God, runs it through his own long hair. "Because we can either talk about it or I can send you off with some tea and a biscuit but... I just want you to trust me."

Louis just shakes his head, unable to stop crying to answer.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Harry whispers. He climbs into the tub beside Louis, and Louis lets him pull him close without much resistance. He’s out of strength to pretend that he doesn’t want comfort, help, a _friend_.

“I h-hate myself, Harry,” he whispers through his tears. “I d-don’t want to be like- like this.”

He’s falling into Harry before he realises it, faintly reminiscent of the first time he, himself, entered this very flat and collapsed in the living room. There’s so many things he wants to say, so many ways he wants to thank Harry, so many things he wants to ask him. He _can’t_ , though. He can’t do anything except grip Harry’s shirt like it’s the only thing keeping him from being suffocated by his own self-hatred.

“There’s nothing wrong with you, Louis. Being different isn’t fucked up. I―" Harry sighs harshly, like he's frustrated that he's not doing much to help. He ends up just holding Louis close to his chest as he cries, nosing at his hair.

“Do you want something to eat?” Harry tries. “Tea?”

A short while later, Louis can breathe again, sort of, tears still flowing silently into Harry’s shirt. He nods softly, trying not to jostle himself. Harry does the same, slowly guiding Louis to his feet.

“You’re alright,” he whispers.

Harry carries on with more encouragements as they step out of the tub, into Harry’s room, into the hallway and into the kitchen. Louis’s stopped crying now, still hiccupping with every inhale and breathing shakily with every exhale. His chest hurts, like when you’re trying to take deep breaths after being in a chlorine pool for too long. He stands up from the chair he’d sat in to wash his face, maybe a little too quickly because he stumbles. Harry’s there to catch him, though, and Louis thinks that’s very metaphorical for these last two months.

“Thanks.” It’s the first word he’s spoken that he hasn't choked on, and his voice is shot.

Harry doesn’t comment, but he pulls a face and laughs. “Honey in your tea?”

Louis can’t bring himself to smile, but lets the swell of his heart do it for him. “Please.”

The spend the time it takes Harry to make the tea in silence, aside from Louis’ occasional sniffle. They drink the tea in silence as well, Harry seemingly picking up on Louis’ need for him to understand that there’s nothing to be said. Louis is beyond grateful for that, because he’s scared that if he opens his mouth to speak he’ll just start crying again.

The problem is that Louis feels gross all over, a layer of embarrassment and loathing stuck to his skin like mud. He just wants to scratch it off, shower until the water’s run cold and he can’t stay on his feet any longer, until he doesn’t feel so _awful_. He knows it’s all in his head, to be honest, that nearly ninety percent of his thoughts really teeter on the line between reality and his brain’s fucked up, twisted version of it. 

Louis goes home, eventually, after he wordlessly retrieves his clothes from Harry’s room and marks his farewell with a hug that makes him tear up again. He doesn’t cry, though, and is able to step into his own flat, stumble past Zayn with blurry vision, and drag his feet into his own room. Only then does he fall into his closet and let himself cry until he’s fast asleep.

-

Louis's woken to a muffled knocking on his door, annoyed to open his eyes and find that it's still dark. He lifts his head and his neck aches, realising that his "pillow" was a pile of his own shoes. Then he remembers where he is. It very well might be daylight and he wouldn't even know.

The knocking is coming from his bedroom door, so he's forced to stumble out into the blinding light and call with a raspy voice that he'll be right there. He doesn't even know what day it is, let alone the fact that he could simply tell Zayn to come in.

Zayn gets the hint anyway, pushing into Louis' room without an invitation and grumbling about how Louis would never let him sleep this long on a bloody Saturday.

"At least I've not missed work you arse."

Zayn looks at him for the first time, and it must be bad since Louis hasn't looked in the mirror in days and Zayn frowns.

"What in the hell happened?"

"The long version or the short version?" Louis asks as he falls into his bed.

Zayn throws a shoe at him. "The long one. Get dressed, we'll go out for breakfast."

Louis sighs, mentally preparing himself for the tears he'll have to withhold in public. "Suit yourself." But Zayn's already gone.

-

Zayn takes him to a café he's never heard of, orders him a waffle with just about everything on it, and stays quiet until Louis is ready to talk. 

“Had an episode in Harry’s bathtub this morning. Or last night. Don’t really know.” He says it casually as he puts down his mug so he doesn’t lose the nerve to have a conversation he most definitely needs. 

Zayn takes a bite of his toast. “So what’d he say?”

Louis shrugs, his heart trying to crawl into his throat. “Not much. Kinda glad on that, though.” He isn’t, not really, probably would’ve fished for more than the comfort nothings and the hushed endearments that sounded forced. That is, he would have if he’d been able to speak. That embarrassed itch comes back, and he tries to scratch it off his arm. He’s delusional maybe, but the action miraculously kills the feeling, even if it’s temporary.

“You should talk to him. He knows you better than me at this point considering your… friendship. And its benefits.”

The thought alone makes Louis’ stomach curl in on itself. “It’s not _me_ that’s with him, Z. We’re friends, yeah, I’d like to think so but it’s not me utilising the so-called benefits part. Do you get that? You know that Angel isn’t me, right?”

Confusion is evident on Zayn’s face. “As far as I’m aware, you’re you. In all your weirdness you’re just… Louis. No matter what you make me call you. How can Angel just not… be a part of you?”

“I don’t _know_. That’s the problem. Just― do you understand what I mean?”

Zayn shakes his head, a sad look on his face. “No. No, I don’t.” And he looks like he hates that he truly means that, because Louis’s his best friend, of course he wants to understand.

And that’s when Louis realises just how blind he’s been to Harry’s reactions. Harry’s not been _understanding_ , he can’t possibly have been. There’s no chance that he’s comprehended Louis’ fucked up tendency to be other people; _Zayn_ can’t even figure it out. And Zayn’s a fucking genius. Harry’s just been _accepting_ it. Louis feels disconnected from himself all in the sudden, recalling all the times he had this crippling doubt that Harry hated him for being a freak. His heart’s threatening to burst right in his chest, blown up like a balloon full of gratefulness and a stupefying epiphany. 

“Zayn.” He says it as calmly as he can manage. “I need to go.”

It’s times like these when Louis is fairly certain that Zayn is a mind reader. He simply gives Louis a look and nods, and Louis is throwing a crumpled twenty pound note in his face and slipping out of the booth before either of them can blink.

He’s barely got his coat over his shoulders by the time he steps outside, the wind sneaking up his sides and down his neck. It shocks a dash of confidence into him, puts an extra pinch of determination in his run. He’s sort of glad he hasn’t got the time for things like zippers at the moment.

Louis skids to a stop in front of their building, wholeheartedly tempted to slap himself in the face. The urge seems increasingly necessary as his palms start to sweat with every ding the lift makes. By the time the doors slide open and he’s stepped out into the hallway he’s just about ready to smash his face into the wall.

Standing outside of Harry’s flat door gives Louis an overwhelming feeling of anxiety and nostalgia, remembering the first time he stood here, counting the seconds it’d take him to knock on Harry’s door.

So he does it again, counts backwards from one hundred, making it to sixty five before raising his fist to knock on the wood.

But as fate would have it, he never makes contact. Louis’ fist goes right through the threshold as the door swings open, revealing a relatively tall, brunette boy with biceps the size of Louis' face, he estimates. It's not so much the visitor that throws Louis off, but the sleepy contended state of Harry, who's half naked on the couch, and the soft look that this stranger had been throwing the curly haired boy before he'd noticed Louis' presence. Now he looks a bit put off, a smile on his face like he's trying to come across as friendly. Louis sees right through it, sees right through his stupid puppy face to Harry, who looks utterly horrified at― at _what_? Has Louis _caught_ him in something?

It doesn’t take long for Louis to figure out how to work his motor skills again and take the four paces to his own door. He swings it open, and stops short halfway to his room, feeling entirely too insignificant in the grand scheme of things. The inevitable breakdown he was just headed towards suddenly feels so useless, the hurt running in his veins meaningless. It’s cynical, and maybe a little stupid, but it stops him from crying. He walks back out of the flat after grabbing several packets of post-it notes and three packs of cigarettes, out into the night. He makes his way to the park and finds his little niche, and writes about the lights that flash behind his eyes each time he closes them. He writes about the bruises on his wrists that still have yet to fade. He's not a writer by any means, can hardly string a coherent sentence together at the best of times. But it's the only comfort he has, leaving a piece of him for an unsuspecting someone to find, should they choose to unfold a useless scrap of paper. 

Louis doesn't know when he falls asleep, his cheek squished up against the bark of the tree he's been leaning on. When he does, though, it's to a pattering sound in his ears that's the warning of an oncoming storm.

-

_Harry_

It takes a little over a week of being blatantly dodged and ignored by Louis for Harry to figure out what he's done. It comes to him with a start on a Thursday night, while he's staring at the ceiling in the dim light of his shitty lamp, smoking a cigarette and pondering the happenings of the last four years or so. He immediately feels like shit, aware of the huge chunk of Louis' trust he's undoubtedly lost. It's confusing, extremely confusing that he'd be jealous when even Angel confirmed that Louis wasn't interested in anything more than friendship. Louis’s an enigma, he’s come to realise, and is perplexing even in his simplest moments. But Harry’s also figured out that no matter how frustrated he should be, he’s come to love this boy and everything that comes with him. And Harry just accepts it, all of it. The mere thought of being angry at Louis for things he can’t help is a thousand types of irrational. 

So Harry just stares at his ceiling for a little while longer, wondering how in the hell he can explain to Louis that Liam’s _just a friend_ who was ironically comforting him when he was upset over _Louis_ himself. It’s not even that, really; it’s more the fact that Louis is probably not even going to want to look at him, much less hear him out. If Harry didn’t care so much that he can physically feel his heart breaking at the thought of Louis being upset over something he misunderstood, being upset over _Harry_ , maybe it’d be easier to let it go. But Harry’s not worth being upset over, he knows that much at least.

It’s by pure coincidence that Harry gets his chance to get a head start on reinstating Louis’ trust in him that very day. Liam had called him and told him to “get the fuck up before he comes over there and dumps frozen fish on him” since he’s just been moping around for three days, and he thought he’d run to the market because he’s out of comfort food. He runs into Zayn on his way out the door, and the death glare that’s shot his way by the lad is conclusion enough that Louis is, in fact, quite upset.

“Zayn? Zayn, wait. Please just hear me out?”

Zayn doesn’t turn around to look at him, but holds the lift for him. Harry steps inside, watches the numbers the same way Zayn does and tries not to come off too desperate. Zayn speaks first, much to his relief.

“You’re fucking with his head, did you know? He’s had worse but,” he sighs softly, “He doesn’t need this.”

Harry frowns, not giving Louis’ past much of a thought since he’d said he didn’t want to talk about it. “He’s strong, though, you know that much. He’s fucking with me right back.”

“It’s not his _fault_ ,” Zayn snaps.

“Christ, I _know that_ , yeah? Could give me the benefit of the doubt.” He doesn’t want to get frustrated here, not when he’s technically in the wrong. “It’s not what he thinks. Whatever he thinks he saw it isn’t true.” They step out of the lift. “You need to let me explain that to him, at the very least.”

Zayn spins around to face him, blocking his exit. The hard look set on his face leaves no room for negotiation. “I have to get to work, but you can see him. Later. So help me if you even knock on that door I will find out and you’ll be sorry you ever did.” If Harry wasn’t about to shit his pants before, he sure as hell is now. He doesn’t even know Zayn that well but can tell this is extremely uncharacteristic of him; Louis can’t handle tough love, he needs gentle comfort. “He needs to sleep properly, in his bed; he’s run away every night for the last week, sitting in the park ‘til dawn writing until he runs out of paper then he starts scribbling on his arms it’s just―” Harry can see the frustration, hear how helpless he feels to it all. Harry feels quite the same. “Just leave him be. I’ll talk to him, call you over if it’s alright. Don’t get your hopes up.”

He’s gone with an accidentally dramatic sweep of his trench coat before Harry can so much as process everything. Harry waits a moment, positive that Zayn’s well ahead of him before setting out on his original task. 

It’s a quiet walk, hardly anyone out on the streets for some unknown reason. The weather’s strangely pleasant, and Harry realises he’s not really had a chance to appreciate a _nice_ moment, with all the good’s and the bad’s and everything in between. It’s relaxing, to just be stuck in his thoughts, a clear sky above him. He doesn’t appreciate getting swooped at by an unidentified winged thing, but he’s always quite liked nature; it reminds him of home. He’s not done much of that either, missing home. And he suddenly becomes aware that he hasn’t phoned his mum, or his sister, in quite a while.

So he does, he pulls out his phone that he miraculously managed to remember and talks to his mum as he browses through the aisles of the shop with a basket on his arm. He feels quite normal; he answers questions about friends, the new flat, how’s the weather and the like. He never _got_ this part of being on his own, hasn’t been on his own since he left Cheshire, not really. 

Harry ends up buying more than he probably should have, regretting it every second in between the moment he’d bagged up his packages and the moment he collapses into his flat. The real moment of relief, sort of, is when a voice comes from his couch and makes him drop all of his groceries right where he’s leaning against his closed door.

“Buggering _fuck_ , what are you―” He sees the face of the culprit, heart immediately halting it’s rhythmic pulsing right there in his ribcage. “Lou?”

Louis (he _thinks_ ) makes an obnoxious buzzer sound. “Wrong. Try again.” He’s turning over Harry’s fancy ashtray in his hands. The only thing Harry’s ever splurged on in his life that wasn’t food.

“Not Angel you―” But _no_ , it can’t be. “ _Luke?_ ”

“Ah,” Luke sets the ashtray down gently, rising to his feet and looking around the flat condescendingly. He’s wearing a _suit_ for fuck’s sake. “You’re getting good at this.”

Harry stays pressed up against the door, feeling like he’s in some murder mystery television programme, about to be killed, or eaten, or both. “What are you doing in my flat, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Luke laughs, contorting Louis’ face into a look of contempt and mild amusement that Harry would have never hoped to have see there.

“Thought you missed me?” he says. “Thought you’d gotten sick of pining after Clueless Lewis.” He’s moving closer and closer to Harry, picking up knickknacks and photos as he goes.

Harry scoffs. “I never missed _you_ , Luke. Not you; I don’t even know you.”

“Don’t you?” He runs a finger across Harry’s books lined up on the TV. “Don’t you know every part of Louis? Or want to at least?”

His American accent makes it easier for Harry to distinguish just how _not_ Louis he is. It’s not like having Angel around, like having a sweeter, more open part of Louis. It’s the exact opposite. It’s like he’s got Louis’ arch nemesis in the room, trying to destroy everything good in Louis’ life. He’s got that kind of look on his face, that he’s doing this on purpose. Harry sees right through him, at least he thinks he does. He’s not got much to go on besides instinct.

“You couldn’t just leave him alone? Let him rest?” he tries.

Luke smiles, but the juxtaposing intention behind it makes Harry draw his eyes away. “He’ll be plenty rested when he worms his way back. He couldn’t handle it. The way you disappointed him.” He looks at a photo of Harry and his family, disdain crossing his features. “It’s a disgusting infatuation he’s developed with you. Makes his head all fuzzy, it’s suffocating.”

If the knowledge and sentiment weren’t so heartwarming to Harry he’d have tried a little harder to contain his smile. It’s the best confirmation he can have, actual proof from inside Louis’ head itself that he _feels_ something.

When Harry returns to the situation at hand he’s surprised to find Luke not two feet away from him, scowling and looking him up and down.

“What did he ever do to you?” Harry wonders aloud.

Luke laughs again, more repugnance in it than before. “You really are a moron, I can’t believe I get to witness it first hand.” Luke sizes him up, pulls up to near Harry’s height, their noses mere inches apart. “It’s what he _didn’t_ do, dear Harry,” he snarls, “You don’t get it, do you? You say you do but you don’t. Even little Louis’s figured that much out at least.”

He moves away from Harry, paces to the couch, stands behind it. He seems to be pondering something, considering his next move. It’s strange, to see such a familiar face in such an unfamiliar state of agitation and deep thought.

Luke taps his temple with his index finger. “I’m stuck in here,” he says, “Forever. This life I get to live sometimes isn’t _mine_. It never will be. It never _has been_. I’m not usually one to, let’s say, respect Louis’ wishes, but this is not a story anyone wants me telling. I always got the fucking brunt of every bad thing that ever happened to Louis, did you know that? If Angel ever tells you something similar, he’s lying. Filthy liar. All he ever did was make sure precious Louis would be alright.”

He’s just plain _angry_. Harry can see it in the way his shoulders push back as soon as he sits down. His natural voice is angry, gruff and born of pure hatred. He crosses one leg over the other, leaving Harry stupefied by the door as he loses himself in his mind, Louis’ mind more likely, once again. He hasn’t got a past, or a future, Harry realises. He’s only seen what Louis has, is only bred out of the pain and hurt that Louis’s felt all his life. Harry thinks he gets it now, thinks he’s heard of this sort of thing but he can’t be sure―

“And you know what the best part is?” Luke asks, picking at a loose thread on the sofa.

Harry snaps out of his thoughts, eyes locking on the piercing blue staring back at him, leaving him with an ache in his chest and a question that he leaves to die on his tongue.

“The best part is, young Harold, that I get to sit back and watch you attempt to clean up the mess I’ve just made. It’s the most fun I’ll have all day.”

And in one blink of Harry’s eye the hard look of smugness that Luke is giving him is promptly replaced with a groggy Louis. Harry can tell it’s Louis, can tell by his immediate to reaction to taking in his setting with confusion and fear. His eyes widen and his breathing picks up, and all Harry can do is rush over to him in a sheer blind panic.

“Hey, Lou? You’re alright. It was―”

Louis moves away at the first touch of their hands. “Why am I here? Did you― I was in _bed_. What am I _doing here?_ ”

“I― It was Luke.” He’s aware that he probably sounds like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, but it’s the truth. “He came over here and then he just. He did this on purpose. You, um. You should go back to bed, I’ll walk you back over, you don’t have to be here right now.”

Louis doesn’t move, though, is frozen in place with his chest heaving. He yanks at the tie around his neck eventually, standing up and moving away from Harry with a slightly less alarmed look on his face. 

“What did he say?”

Harry is surprised to say the very least, and he doesn’t know if he should lie or not. “He said,” perhaps he shouldn’t, “He said that he wasn’t the one to tell your story, and that apparently I’d be sat here trying to clean up a mess. You seem to have proven him wrong, though. I imagine he won’t be too pleased.”

There’s a considerable silence in which Louis removes his suit jacket and huffs several times. Harry doesn’t know what to make of it, of Luke coming over here in the first place. From what Harry understands Luke likes to utilise his time partying and the like, so he can’t understand what would make this encounter so particularly interesting.

When Louis doesn’t say anything, Harry decides that now is as good a time as ever to simply resolve what he’d wanted to in the first place.

“Look, um, when you came over last week and you ran into Liam―”

“Oh that’s his name, is it?” The return of Louis’ biting Yorkshire accent makes the question ten times more intimidating.

“It is, yes, and he’s a good friend of mine. I hadn’t seen him for a while since I’d been spending all my time with you and when he knocked on my door that morning he found me crying. Stayed until I was alright again.” Harry knows he isn’t playing fair, but it seems he’s got to play Louis’ game to win. “That also happened to be the exact moment you decided to come over to my flat and misread the entire situation.”

Louis rolls his eyes, not an unfamiliar sight. “What else did he say, Harry? You wouldn’t know I misread it unless he told you something you weren’t meant to hear.”

“I figured that out on my own, thank you.” Louis fixes him with a stern look. “He only confirmed it. Made me really happy, if I’m honest.”

Louis sits down on the coffee table, back to Harry. “I really hate this, you know.” Harry does know, can see it in every tense muscle of Louis’ back underneath his dress shirt. “I don’t mean it to be your fault but when I saw him and I saw you I― I really fucking hate to admit it but that’s what triggered Luke. He likes to think it’s his choice when he comes out but it really isn’t. It’s when I’m hurting that he does, he takes the pain for me, I think. I think he has been for a while. I just can’t remember why.”

It seems to hurt him as he says it, Harry having to strain to hear his dejected mumble of a confession. Harry hates seeing him this way, broken and hopeless when Harry’s sitting _right here_ with a million reasons why he’s the most intricate and unique human being he’s ever had the good fortune of knowing. He wants to tell him all the things he’s told Angel, the things Angel said he wasn’t allowed to say because he’s only a representation of all of the good things hiding inside the shell that Louis provides. Harry needs to break through it, he’d said, slowly but surely with kind actions and not words. Louis won’t believe the things he says, but every muffin and film and trip to the market is what’s going to get Harry into Louis’ head and heart.

It seems to have worked.

“I didn’t want to be jealous, Harry. I didn’t mean to be. It just sort of happened. Feeling this way scares me and I _don't know why_."

Harry can’t take the distance, to be honest, so he pushes off the couch and finds himself kneeling in front of Louis.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” he whispers. “I’m not gonna hurt you, I promise. I just wanna be able to be here for you in the only way I know how and the way I know I can. But I need you to let me in, that’s all.” 

He brushes away Louis’ fringe, and when Louis doesn’t flinch away, rather leaning into it, he pulls him into a hug. Louis doesn’t pull away, but doesn’t reciprocate. He more or less just falls into it and drops his head onto Harry’s shoulder with a warning sniffle. Harry doesn’t let him, just pulls him closer and tells him not to cry because it’s _fine_ , he’s not done anything wrong.

“Lou, I promise you I just want you to be alright. M’not here to judge you or anything. Just want you to be happy. I love it when you’re happy, did you know? It’s a good look for you.”

Louis huffs a half laugh, nuzzling into Harry’s neck. “Can you do me a favour though?”

“Anything.”

“Stop calling me Lou, will you? I don’t know why but I really hate it.” He pulls back, crossing his arms automatically. “I’d like to know why, but I don’t. Not just yet.”

An immense wave of pride promptly runs through Harry, and he smiles at Louis like the boy’s just found the cure for cancer. “I’m glad you told me. Means a lot.”

“Hardly a milestone,” Louis sighs.

There’s no reasons left for Harry to stop his chuckle. “You have no idea.”

-

It's a bit easier after that, for Louis to let Harry tell him nice things, hug him when he's having a tough time. It isn't _easy_ , not by a long shot, because Louis still gets angry and confused and loses himself. 

Sometimes Harry gets Angel, and gets to have his boyfriend back for a bit. He gets kisses and date nights and Angel lounging around in his own knickers that Harry bought for him when he came back. Harry doesn't like Angel more than Louis, and he had to keep reminding himself to not make it seem that way when Louis comes back crying and lost after Angel's spent the night and calmed Louis' body. Those are the days when Harry has to scrape up every bit of advice Angel has given him and every little thing he shouldn’t say to Louis that he’s learned by trial and error. It’s difficult, on those days, because no matter how many times it happens, Louis always comes back with something new, a new reaction to Harry’s arms around him. Harry gets better at reading when he needs to be held and needs to just go home without a word, and he tries not to get offended when he miscalculates and Louis pushes him away. Louis usually apologises when that happens, comes over later in the day or the next evening with a banana or a flower as a peace offering. Harry always accepts, always lets Louis make the first move and doesn’t get angry. No matter how confused or hurt he lets himself get sometimes, he never gets angry.

On the rare occasion, Harry gets Luke, and he has to accept him taking his only company out for days on end and stumbling past him in the hall to a waiting Zayn smelling like booze and weed. It's strange at times, and even harder to sleep when Luke shows up after Louis' started sleeping over because he gets too tired to crawl back to his flat after a Marvel movie marathon. After that it just becomes a habit.

Things are awkward sometimes, and there are some misunderstandings, but Harry is patient and Louis is forgiving. And when they finally go on their first date as _LouisandHarry_ there’s no sign of nerves or a switch, it’s just the two of them out for dinner except now they’re allowed to _hold hands_ and it just may prove to be one of Harry’s favourite days so far. There are few that come in a close second (like the day Louis asked Harry to kiss him, or the day Louis kissed _him_ first) but it’s the end of the date that put the cherry on top for him.

They’re in Harry’s flat, in his kitchen, like they have been dozens of times before.

“Boyfriend!” Louis shouts in the middle of Harry making milkshakes.

Harry jumps, surprised by the outburst, and releases the buttons on the blender. “Pardon?” He doesn’t want to… _jump_ to conclusions. (There’s never a bad time for a pun.)

Louis slides down from the counter, crosses his arms. “I had a boyfriend. That’s what I remembered that night in your flat. It was the last relationship I had I think…” He scrunches up his face adorably in an attempt to remember. “It wasn’t good, it couldn’t have been.”

Turning away from the blender, Harry looks at Louis. There’s a million things running through his mind, a trillion and one ways why Louis’ previous relationship ended badly, was bad, and why he _couldn’t remember it_.

“That’s a bit odd, don’t you think?” Harry wonders aloud. It might be the wrong thing to say, but he’s not quite thinking straight at the moment. “That you’d only just then remembered. I mean, it’s hardly a thing one forgets.”

Louis nods. “I’ve been having nightmares, Harry. S’why I haven’t stayed over the last few weeks. Wasn’t because of… you know.”

They’d started sharing Harry’s bed, because Louis said he’d hated sleeping alone. Harry warned him that he’s a cuddler, knowing that it would make Louis as uncomfortable as it does when he wakes up from an Angel-spell. Nevertheless, Louis had woken to Harry spooning him just as forewarned, and it’s safe to say that Louis reacted accordingly.

“Oh.” Harry doesn’t really know what to say. “I’d, um, d’you think now that _we’re_ like, y’know―”

“Boyfriends?”

Harry’s gaze shoots up from where it fell to the floor, the stars and moon and the fucking sun probably bursting like fireworks in his eyes. “Yeah?”

Louis sends a chuckle his way, nods. “Yeah. Yes. Definitely.”

“ _Boyfriends_ ,” Harry continues, “Maybe you’ll feel more comfortable telling me when something’s bothering you? It’s like, my job now to keep you happy. That would be the boyfriendly thing to do, right?”

To replace a response, Louis simply wraps his arms around Harry’s middle and nods into his chest. He tucks his head right under Harry’s chin and sighs contently.

“Not sure what I’d do without you, love.”

Harry drops his hands onto Louis’ waist and a kiss to the top of his head.

“Likewise.”

And no matter how many bad days they have after that, Harry keeps in mind that Louis _trusts_ him. Louis’ trust means… _too much_ to him for him to turn around and fuck this up. Maybe it isn't fair, or normal, for him to be walking on eggshells around Louis all the time the way he is. He thinks maybe Louis is starting to notice. In the last few weeks Harry's caught him with a look on his face that can only be categorised as guilt. When Harry asks him about it, Louis snaps at him and tells him that he just wants to be alone. He sends Harry back to his own flat without so much as an apology.

Angel sneaks into his room one night, confirms his suspicions of Louis' guilt. He tells Harry that it's been a tough time, that it's not his fault either, and that Louis has something to tell him.

"What kind of something?"

Angel sits up, scrubs his face with his hands. Harry grabs them though, rests them on his lap. He knows Angel isn't going to tell him much, but something is better than nothing.

"An important something," is all he says on the matter before attacking Harry's mouth with his own. "Don't worry about it now, H. Just focus on me. I'm right here and I love you, alright? And I always will no matter how tough it gets with Louis."

It's not the first time either of them have said it, but it's the first time Harry feels like it really _means_ something that's not just skin deep.

Harry wakes up alone with a sticky note stuck to his forehead saying that Angel caught himself before Louis came back and that _Today's the day. xx Be patient._

Preparing for the worst seems like the most normal thing Harry's done relationship-wise besides actually obtaining a boyfriend. He expects terminal illness, death of a family member, a break up. There's not one thing that crosses his mind though that comes even remotely close to the question Louis asks him that evening.

It's a standard evening in all respects, barring the obvious tension in Louis' whole body and the butterflies of anticipation and nerves swarming in Harry's stomach. 

Louis pauses _Grease_ after the fourth scene and turns to Harry with plain tears of fear pooling in his eyes.

"Can I ask you something?" And it's hardly even a whisper. "Be honest. Please."

Harry knew this was coming but is still unreasonably put off. "Yeah, of course. Always."

Louis doesn't miss a beat. "D'you think I'm fucked up?" He winces at his choice of words. "I mean like, do you really think something is wrong with me?"

Harry stares at him for a moment, dozens of wrong responses throwing themselves at him. He can't very well up and tell his boyfriend that yeah, he's fucked up and mental, mostly because he wouldn't even believe it if he said it. He doesn't know what Louis wants to hear, because all that's staring back at him is dull eyes and a trembling lip.

"No, I don't. You're different. That doesn't make you fucked up."

Louis shakes his head amusedly and drops his eyes to his hands. "I thought you might say that." He's silent for a moment before he seems to agree with himself on what he wants to say. "Look, I know I'm not perfect. In fact I'm so far from perfect that I can't even think of a proper simile to tell you how imperfect I am. I've given this a lot of thought, as you might've picked up on, and I didn't want to make any final decisions without letting you know, so. This is me consulting you. Because you're my boyfriend. And I tell you things.

"In the last few months you've been ridiculously kind to me and I still don't understand why but I want you to know that I appreciate it? Like a lot? For a lot of reasons, but that isn't what this is about. I've just really felt like shit for making you put up with all of this bullshit. So I made an appointment? With a, uh, doctor." He clears his throat violently. "A neurologist. It's gonna take me ages to pay for it probably but I really just need your moral support. I wanted to ask you if you'd come with me."

Louis looks up at Harry for the first time since he began his speech. He’s not crying, but there are tears in his eyes that say otherwise. Harry doesn’t know what to say, as per usual, and all he can really think is that he loves this boy, _so fucking much_ and that yes, he’ll support him with whatever decisions he makes and help him in any way he can. It’s all he’s ever wanted to do since he found out about Louis’ “other sides” whether he’s meant to or not. He’s caring to a fault, will do anything for the people he loves.

“I can’t do it alone, Harry. I just can’t. Not anymore. This isn’t _right_ and it needs to be fixed. And I just need to know that you’ll be there, I- I’m not trying to make you feel like you have to, it’s just. I don’t really have anyone else I mean. Zayn. He accepts it but he doesn’t really know and understand the way that you do. And that’s all I ever needed. You did that for me. And I’d really appreciate it if you did this for me too.” He’s tripping over his words now, rushing to get them out as they all come together in his head. “I- It’s not been an easy decision I couldn't even come to terms with it at first that somethings _wrong_ with me but. This isnt normal. I’m not just different, Harry, I lose chunks of my _life_ and I can't remember the last six fucking _years_ and Zayn doesn't tell me _anything_ I just. I need this. Okay? Can you just please do this for me?” He shuts his eyes and sighs deeply. “If its bad you can be done with me and leave but I just need you to be there and decide for yourself. Or something. I don't know. Just this one thing. That’s all I’m asking. Then it’s up to you.”

Harry’s stunned into silence for long enough until he decides to just kiss Louis to make up for it. It’s quick and chaste but it seems to be all the confirmation Louis needs, and it’s all the time that Harry needs to get himself together.

He keeps a hand on Louis’ jaw, their noses pressed together and says, “I won’t leave. I promise.”

And it’s one he intends to keep.

-

_Louis_

Dissociative Identity Disorder.

That’s what the doctor calls it when Louis, with his trembling hands folded in his lap, told him to just spit it out. Louis doesn’t know what it means, only hears the word _disorder_ , the word that confirms his suspicions that there is definitely something very wrong with him. In his head. That he can’t control. And it’s virtually untreatable.

The doctor asks him if he knows what Multiple Personality Disorder is, and that’s when Louis retches up his lunch right into the conveniently located basin beside him. He doesn’t know what his problem is. Months ago, he would’ve been excited to hear all of this, sickly thrilled to hear that he’s got something rare up in his brain that makes him even more drastically different from everyone else than he already is. It’s an explanation for the blackouts, the spouts of odd behaviour that aren’t his. Though, they are, in a way, even if they’re not. There are two, three, maybe twenty other _people_ living inside his head that he has to share his body with from time to time. As the doctor explains all of it, he wonders why he feels like he’s being turned inside out, rather than feeling like his world’s finally making sense.

That’s when he remembers Harry, who’s sat just outside probably as nervous as he was― _is_. Harry that he’s just begun wanting to be better for, Harry that he's let down and confused and hurt countless times already and who's still unconditionally and irrevocably _there._

Life isn’t fair, Louis' sadly come to know. He knows that it’s not about what’s fair either. Life just happens, sometimes, it happens in ways we can't control, ways we don't like. Louis can accept that, he can, but what he can't stand is not knowing. The whys, the hows, they've torn him up inside and left him a cynical, for lack of a better term, _mess._ Louis doesn't think himself a bad person, and genuinely hopes he's right, so he can't imagine what kind of horrible thing he could've done, what anyone could do, to have been dealt such a terrible hand.

"Can I bring in my boyfriend?" And as awful as he feels, his heart still jumps at the word. "I don't― So you can explain to him? I..."

The doctor shakes his head sadly. "I think you should do that. Because once you've explained it in your own words it might better help you get a grip on what your condition is to you. Do you understand?"

Louis laughs at the loose use of the term 'condition.' "Right, so. What do I do about this? Therapy? Psychotherapy? Because I've got a bit of a financial―"

"Slow down, Louis. Yes, psychotherapy is the ideal route of treatment here. The main goal would be to find the origin and to 'kill off' the other personalities. There are several methods of doing this, but that would be up to your therapist, depending on the strengths of the personalities and the possibility of others making themselves present. The first order of business between us is learning the specifics of your personalities. I recommend you keep a journal so your therapist can get a good idea of them right from the start. Hopefully― Luke and Angel you called them?― will catch on."

Louis nods, his head spinning from an overload of information. "Yeah, but can I please just―"

The doctor takes note of his overwhelmed state, his eyes going sad as he nods sympathetically. "Of course, I guess that's all. Just make sure to make an appointment back with me at the front desk and I'll get you referred to a therapist straight away."

Louis gets up and to the door as quickly as he can without seeming rude or anxious. He's got his hand on the doorknob when he hears his name.

"Yeah?"

"You're gonna be alright."

With a nervous smile Louis nods and leaves. He sure hopes so.

-

Harry doesn't take the news well. He blames it on himself, spends the night crying because he didn't notice, and continuously apologises for crying. Louis can't possibly be annoyed, lest he hate himself for the rest of his life for being such a hypocrite. So he makes Harry tea, cuddles him in bed, plays him the quietest songs he can think of. He quite likes being on this side of the comforting, feeling needed for once in his life even though seeing Harry so torn up about something that literally isn't his fault makes his throat tighten with the threat of tears.

"It isn't your fault, Harry," he whispers over and over into the quiet. "You're the best thing that could've happened to someone like me." He hesitates for a moment before he says it, but knows he won't regret it. "I love you, Harry."

Harry seems to agree wholeheartedly, his breath catching on his silent crying. He lifts his head up from its place on Louis' chest, his red eyes looking at Louis like he's seen a ghost.

"What?"

Brushing hair from Harry's eyes, Louis repeats himself. "I love you, and I don't know what I'd do without you."

The aggressive kiss Harry presses to Louis' lips is responsive enough, but he answers as well. "Fuck, Louis, I love you too."

He's still got tears running down his cheeks, reaches up to slide all of his fingers into Louis' hair as he kisses him. Suddenly, he laughs, starling Louis and himself.

"What is it?"

Harry just continues to giggle at himself for a few moments.

"Spit it out, Harry."

"It's just―" he pauses for more giggling, "Is this considered cheating?"

Louis has to laugh too then. It's quite ridiculous, that even while Angel and Louis are two different people in all respects, they still do share the same body.

"Emotionally? Probably. Physically? It depends."

"Depends on what, exactly?"

"I guess the question would be," Louis reasons, "Do we like the same things?"

Harry's eyebrows scrunch up. "You and me?"

"Me and Angel."

"Oh," he drags it out for about ten seconds, "No I don't get it."

A laugh gets out even though Louis doesn't mean it to. "We might have identical bodies― the same body― but my brain, it's like arranged completely differently when Angel is out. So while Angel might like _this_ ," Louis gropes at Harry's dick through his trousers smugly for a fleeting moment to demonstrate, "I might like, say, _this_." And with that he pinches Harry's nipple through his shirt.

"Ouch.” Harry pouts and tries to undo the damage with a hand rubbing his chest. “Sort of. For the record, I think it's the other way around." He grabs at Louis' crotch playfully in retaliation.

The sensation makes coloured dots explode in Louis' line of vision and a pain shoot through his head. He tries his hardest to not cringe and slap Harry's hand away, but his vision blacks out for a moment, so he doesn't know if he succeeds. He doesn't think so, because when the darkness finally dissipates he finds himself nearly falling off of the bed and staring back at a wide eyed Harry.

"Louis?"

"I-I'm sorry, I. I don't know w-what happened, it just―"

Harry tries to move towards Louis but he backs up unintentionally, has to throw a hand out to stop himself from dropping to the floor.

"It's just me, Louis. I'm not gonna hurt you. Did I? Because I didn't mean to I promise, are you alright?"

Louis shuts his eyes tight against the pale and worried look on Harry's face. "Don't look at me like that, H, I can't stand it. I-I'm okay, just. Come here. Please? My brain just got confused, that's all." He's more trying to convince himself, even though he knows for a fact it wasn't Harry's fault.

"Yeah. Yeah, it's okay, I'm sorry if I made you like, see―"

"Stop talking."

Harry laughs, and Louis can hear him shuffling slowly closer. He's not startled by the arms that suddenly wrap around him, a good sign. He curls his arms around Harry's neck, more or less crawls into his lap and presses their cheeks together, eyes still closed.

"Okay," Harry whispers, the most comforting thing he's said yet. They can do that, they can be okay. 

And Louis knows that they're going to be just fine.

-

_Harry_

"Will you please just listen to me!?" In lieu of an answer, Angel slams the door in Harry's face. He pushes it open, enters the flat and sees no signs of where Angel could've gone, extremely grateful that Zayn isn't home.

"Where'd you go?" Harry whines with a frown. "Angel I didn't mean it that way, you know that!"

Angel's voice comes from somewhere deep in the flat. "How else could you have meant it Harry? Not sure the words 'you're a better fuck' have so many meanings!"

Harry had warned himself of this very thing months upon months ago. He had to constantly remind himself to never compare Angel to Louis or any of his other alternates to him or each other. Harry doesn't know what kind of damage it could cause, Louis' brain being angry at itself from different sides, and he doesn't particularly want to find out.

"Angel, you―" he's walking aimlessly about the flat, not knowing where to look, "You can see everything can't you? Almost all of it? You _know_ we haven't done anything yet, you _know_ that there's nothing to― I meant it as a compliment for fuck's sake!"

The muffled, "You're an asshole, Harry Styles," comes from directly beside Harry. The only thing near him is a broom cupboard, so he opens it, met with a sight he's not quite familiar with.

Harry’s never seen Angel cry, not in the entire time he’s known him, and especially not like this. The red eyes and harsh breaths are things he knows how to fix with Louis, and not even that first time Angel broke down in front of him tearlessly was he as scared as he is now.

His heart leaps up his throat, like it's trying to jump out of him and hand itself over to Angel as a peace offering. Harry falls to his knees in front of the bucket Angel is sat on, grabs his small hands in his own and brings them to his chest.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, "I don't know why I said it. I didn't mean it to offend you, love, I thought it was just banter. Please, please stop crying, I can't stand seeing you like this." He runs a thumb across Angel's tear stained cheek, his own pressing against his eyes and nose. "I love you so much. You know you're more than just a fuck to me, you have to know that. I'd rather die before I did anything to hurt you on purpose."

"Louis always thinks that his confidence got stolen somehow," he says with a wet laugh, "Little does he know that he's the one we're all envious of."

"Why's that?"

Angel slides down to the floor, tucking himself into Harry's open arms. "He gets _you,_ Harry. No matter what happens from here on out, he's the one that gets you the most and for real."

Harry doesn't quite agree, thinks that Angel is just as real as Louis is. He knows better though, knows how meaningless Angel must feel sometimes because even though he's the dominant of all the other alternates, he'll always be just that, an alternate. 

"I love you just the same, Angel. It's not like you never get me. I'm always here, always thinking about you. And guess what, I loved you first anyway."

Yeah, Harry loved Angel first, and he'll love him always.

-

_Louis_

It doesn’t really get much easier for them, though eventually the therapy helps kill Luke. He was toxic, they all agree, and Harry takes Louis out for a proper celebration when he hears the news. His ‘death’ results in the emergence of several new personalities, however, but they’re less aggressive and self-destructive and don’t have the same memories of pain that Luke was tortured with. They’re not too taken by Harry at the start, and still have yet to warm up to him. They’re young children, a few of them, though one is a bit of a rowdy teenager, so they’re scared or wary, but Louis knows Harry will win their hearts eventually like he did his own.

Zayn takes some time to come around to Louis’ diagnosis, not quite understanding it for a while. Louis is patient with him though, and Zayn doesn’t show any bitterness or hostility towards Louis or his alternates when they show up, knows that it isn’t his fault nor of his volition. He tells Louis that he’s just confused, uneducated, so Louis leaves the in depth understanding of his condition to Harry, telling Zayn that he simply needs his company and friendship, just like he always has. Zayn gets it eventually, though; it somehow just clicks one day when they’re out on Louis’ balcony that they’ve come to share in the process. Louis doesn’t need as much alone time as he used to, hates being alone now, and talking with Zayn about more than just the weird things that pop into his head is something he comes to cherish. He learns that Zayn is actually smarter than he thought.

The hardest part is keeping himself in check, not letting himself get too stressed and lose time. Harry makes him do yoga with him in the mornings before he heads off to the theatre. He’s acting now, is the supporting part in their production of _Seussical_ , not just hiding in the wings to get close to the stage, so he needs to stay grounded more than ever. Harry keeps him sane, is what he does, and he tells Harry as much nearly five times a day.

“You keep me sane, did you know that?”

"You tell me so six times a minute," Harry notes. "And no matter how many times you say it it's still not quite true. It's all you, Louis."

Louis slaps him on the arm playfully, but can't quite put enough force behind it in his position. He's lying completely on top of Harry, staring up at him through his eyelashes like he can't quite believe he's real. And that's true enough, because he supposes he can't. He's wondered more than once if Harry's just a figment of his imagination, a made up splash of colour on his black and white canvas of a heart, because he's just too good to Louis, who still refuses to believe that he deserves this one in a million chance of a companion.

"I still can't quite believe that I'm all yours, that you'd choose me, as fucked up as I am―"

Harry closes a hand over Louis' mouth, his cold rings bumping Louis' lips. Louis wants to lament the fact that he can't bite at his fingers but there's suddenly nimble fingers poking at his side.

"You. Are. Not. Fucked. Up." He emphasises each word with a poke that makes Louis giggle and squirm. "I'm yours as well, you know. All yours."

Louis knows Harry can feel his blush on his fingers, so he opts for repositioning his face so that Harry's covering his eyes. Harry doesn't leave it there for long, instead trailing his fingers up to Louis' hair.

"Angel stole all my confidence as well as my sex appeal, you know that."

Harry laughs, and Louis can feel every inch of his own body shift with the force of it. "You make yourself believe that, Louis. And you'll do well to remember that your ability to seduce me on purpose is far less important than you loving yourself even a fraction as much at I love you."

"Someone call the forest!" Louis shouts. "We've found the missing sapling they've been looking for!" He chuckles at his own joke and returns his previous tone. "Bloody cheese head, you are."

Harry grins like it's Christmas, reaching to the floor beside the couch for something. His dimples just might cave permanent holes in his face with the force of his smile when he comes up with his cheese hat and puts it on. "That I am, love, that I am."

Louis rests his head gently back on Harry's chest with a content sigh and there's words falling off his tongue before he can think better off them. "I think I'd quite like to marry you one day, Mr. Styles." He doesn't have it in him to regret it, too happy just where he is to not mean it even a little bit.

"Is that a proposal, Mr. Tomlinson?"

"That's a promise."

**Author's Note:**

> god bless you if youve made it this far im sorry for any pain ive caused. leave me some kudos, some comments including the reason you hate me.
> 
> rebloggable post: [here](https://nightwideopen.tumblr.com/post/160019722519/could-be-blue-could-be-grey-by-nightwideopen-the) :)


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